


Closer Encounters

by Untherius



Category: Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977), Independence Day (Movies), Norse Religion & Lore
Genre: Alien Invasion, Dancing, F/M, Festivus, Found Family, Gen, Space Combat, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 08:38:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 43,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13050426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Untherius/pseuds/Untherius
Summary: Once inside the mothership, the magnitude of what he's done hits Roy like a Mack truck.  But it's already too late to go back, a journey of a thousand light-years that begins with a single step.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kerithwyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kerithwyn/gifts).



At the top of the ramp leading into the alien ship, Roy Neary stopped. The magnitude of what he’d done suddenly hit him like a Mack truck. His legs shook, his breathing shortened, his heart pounded in his ears. He forced himself to take slow, deep breaths, holding each one for a couple of moments before letting it back out. That seemed to help.

 _Okay, Roy_ , he told himself, _get a grip. You got yourself here. If they were going to kill you, they’d have done it by now._

Without the contrast against the darkness surrounding the compound, he found his vision adjusting to light much less harsh and glaring as it had initially seemed. Panels about a low ceiling’s circular perimeter bathed the space in a yellowish light, illuminating mottled deep green walls and a smooth metallic floor. The wall on the far side held a sort of recessed alcove. Beside it stood several of the taller aliens, the ones a head shorter than himself, all dressed in some sort of robes that contrasted with the leotards he’d seen the little aliens wearing outside the ship. Beside them, stacks of something soft-looking sat piled on two gleaming metal tables.

Those little aliens, the ones who’d pulled him out of line and escorted him into the ship, had all but forgotten about him. They streamed past, casting him the occasional glance, pelting across the room to the cluster of the taller ones. The taller ones assisted the shorter ones in some task amid a flurry of what looked like fabric, all while chattering away in a musical language full of liquid sounds, trills, and purring noises.

After a few minutes, the entire gaggle of them, now clothed in the same short robes, filed through the alcove, taking the table-carts with them. All but three. A moment later, another of the taller aliens walked past him, and over to the three remaining taller ones. The three thumped right fists against chests before one of them held out what looked like a tunic, which the fourth accepted and slipped on on over its head and the leotard it already wore. About its waist, it fastened a wide belt from which hung several pouches of varying shapes and sizes.

The four of them chatted away, then laughed. At least, it appeared to be laughter. But for all Roy knew, it could just as easily have been something entirely different. The tone of their discussion changed, each of them looking occasionally in Roy’s direction. At length, the fourth alien stalked off through the alcove.

The remaining three purposefully crossed the room and stopped a few paces away, a strong whiff of mint cutting through the scent of lavender that had been so pervasive since he’d entered the ship. All possessed the same smooth grey-brown skin variously mottled in greens and blues, nearly-flat faces, and large dark eyes with deep-hued irises nearly lost in the pupils they rimmed. Around two necks hung a pendant, a thick inverted T decorated with knotwork and suspended from a cord of woven metal.

One of the aliens, slightly taller than the other two, wore an olive-drab tunic over loose trousers tucked into brown, knee-high boots polished to a shine. A black leather belt supporting several pouches hung about his waist.

“Welcome aboard Lopt-hyarta,” it said in a distinctly masculine voice, accented in something that almost sounded a cross between Minnesotan and possibly German. “This will be your home for the remainder of its voyage. We are to be your hosts for the duration of your stay with us. You will live under our roof, share our table, and work, train, and study alongside the members of our household.

“First, I believe introductions are traditionally in order. My name is Bragi, out of Gunluda, by Othen. This is my lovely wife, Ithuna, out of Hiltha, by Svan.”

He indicated one of the other aliens, this one clad in a light blue dress, hemmed to just below the knee beneath which a pair of black leather ankle boots peeked out. Twin straps over her shoulders supported an apron-like over-dress, darker blue with a floral design embroidered about the lower hem. A pair of round brooches of worked yellowish metal set with iridescent stones embellished the garment where the straps met the rest of it. Between the brooches hung three strands of variously-colored glass beads. A buff felt satchel hung at her hip.

“Our beautiful daughter Elsha.” He indicated the third alien.

Like her mother, she wore the same style of dress, same shoes. A yellow-orange dress contrasted sharply with an apron looking suspiciously like a single piece of black leather. Between brooches similar to her mother’s hung a single strand of amber. A brown leather satchel hung at her waist.

Elsha pulled from her satchel something that looked a little like a clipboard, perhaps ten inches by eight inches, but much thicker, and began tapping on it. “Now,” she said, her voice distinctly feminine, but with the same accent as her father, the roll of her 'R's more pronounced, “we shall have to call you something, ya? Unless you would prefer Midgardor Midgardranson?”

Roy blinked. “Uh...Roy.”

“Roi,” she repeated, tapping on the board.

“Neary,” Roy added.

Elsha glanced up, deep blue irises locking onto his own. “Ni-ri,” she said. “Your mother’s name?”

“Um...no. My father’s. Well, his last name, but...”

“What is your mother’s name?” she interrupted.

“Martha. Why?”

“Roi, out of Martha, by Niri,” said Elsha. She flashed him a thin smile, and extended her hand. “I believe this is the traditional greeting of your people, ya?”

Roy nodded and shook the proffered hand. Elsha’s grip was much stronger than he’d expected. He repeated the customary greeting with Bragi and Ithuna.

“Now,” said Ithuna, also with the same accent, “do you have any questions before we begin your orientation?”

“You...speak English?” Roy blurted.

“Obviously,” Elsha snorted.

Ithuna cocked her head. “Of all the questions you must have, that is the first one you ask?”

Roy opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I...don’t know where to start,” he said at length.

Bragi nodded. “That is understandable. There will be plenty of time for the questions you have, as well as for the ones you do not yet know to ask. Please follow us, and we will begin.”

Bragi and his family turned and headed across the room, Roy right behind them. They entered the alcove. Roy hit his head on the top of the door and grunted.

“Ah,” said Elsha, looking up at him. “You should watch your head.”

Roy rubbed his head as he ducked through the door. “Now you tell me.”

Bragi tapped on a small panel beside the door. “I strongly suggest you pay attention,” he said. “I cannot over-stress the importance of that. If you feel you must ask if something, as I believe your people are fond of saying, will be on the exam, then the answer will surely be ya.”

“How do I know what something is if I, um, don’t know what it is?”

“You have two eyes, two ears, and one mouth, ya?” said Elsha.

Roy nodded.

“Then balance their use proportionally,” said Bragi. “Much will be demanded of you, Roi Marthason. You may feel yourself near your breaking point on many occasions. Know that of all those who have been our guests, from your world and from others, many have not been a good fit.”

“So how do I know which kind I am?”

“Much will rest upon your own decisions.”

“To think of it another way,” said Ithuna, “how badly do you want this? It is a question only you can answer.” Roy opened his mouth, but Ithuna pressed on. “Nei, you need not vocalize it. Your actions will speak loudly enough.”

The far wall of the alcove slid open and Bragi led them out into a cavernous space. Far above their heads, a structure hung from the center of a ceiling so high, Roy was sure all of Devil’s Tower would have fit with plenty of room to spare. At first, he had trouble taking it all in.

It consisted of what looked like seven long slabs arranged like the sort of pincers in those arcade games, their color and texture difficult to determine. Between the slabs, a bright, pulsing prismatic light poured out. It radiated out along lines in the ceiling like wheel spokes.

“It is the heart of Lopt-hyarta,” said Bragi proudly. “The reactor that powers the ship.”

“Is it...nuclear?”

“Nei. Simply put, it uses energy from strain placed on the fabric of space-time. We call it...” Roy couldn’t tell if the ensuing stream of syllables made up a single word, or many.

“Uh...gesundheit?” he said.

Ithuna chuckled. “Thank you.”

“Most translations into other languages have proven to be wholly inadequate,” said Bragi.

“During our previous visit,” said Ithuna, “the people used one of your...what do you call it...ak-ro-nimi? They called it...BIFROST.”

Roy chuckled. “Well...that’s a lot easier to pronounce.”

“If you say so,” said Elsha.

“Now, if you do not mind,” said Bragi, “I must help secure the ship for translation. Ithuna and Elsha will continue your orientation. I will see you in time for our evening meal.”

“Right,” said Ithuna. She turned to Elsha and a brief discussion followed. Ithuna walked away, leaving Roy alone with Elsha.

“She will meet us at her office shortly. In the meantime, where would you like to begin?”

Roy tore his attention away from the Bifrost and looked down at Elsha. She blinked back at him with her impossibly dark eyes and an expression he couldn’t quite identify.

“No idea. You choose.”

She made a pensive sound, pulled out the board he’s seen her tap on earlier, and consulted it.

“What is that, by the way?”

“Oh, this?” She turned to allow him to look at it over her shoulder as she tapped. It was obviously not a board, but a screen of some sort. Images flickered across it, some apparently accompanied by some sort of angular writing.

“We call it a sleit,” she said.

“Slate? As in, the rock?”

She cocked an eye at him. “I am sure I do not know what you are talking about. Explain, please.”

“It’s a type of rock,” he said. “I saw a demonstration once. People used to use a nail or something to write on it. It’s also used as roofing, flooring, and in landscaping.”

“Interesting,” she said. She tapped some more. After a few moments, she pointed at the screen. “How about this?”

“How about what?”

She looked sharply at him. “You cannot read?”

“Of course I can. Just...not that.”

“You do not know your runes?”

“Runes? Okay, I’ve heard of runes.”

“Then what do you use?”

“Roman alphabet.”

She let the slate drop to her side and half-glared at him. “Roman? We go to all the trouble to give your people a perfectly good writing, and you forget about it?”

“Hey, don’t look at me. It’s not _my_ fault. I don’t think it’s been used in, I don’t know, five hundred years?”

Elsha snorted. “That might explain a few things.”

“Like what?”

“Your apparent lack of progress. I was...how do you say...briefed on it.”

“I’m confused. Again. Still.”

She sighed. “It would explain why mostly what we have found during our survey is this other writing. This Roman, as you call it. Curiously, we have found several other kinds of writing, and all were in use during our last visit. Yet you have chosen this Roman over any other. Father says that if your people had retained the use of runes, you would be more ready. Mother says it has more to do with the fact that it seems you cannot stop from fighting with one another. She says it has distracted you. That you will not be ready next time.”

“Ready for what?”

“To resist the Virini, of course!” she said. “Have you not studied your history?”

“Who the hell are the Virini?!”

Elsha let out an exasperated sound and muttered something in her language, something that didn’t sound complimentary. “That is what all the others said,” she growled.

“You mean, all those people who came out earlier?”

She nodded. “Some of them. Many only replied with their name, what we think is a military rank, and a series of numbers. No matter what we asked. It was frustrating.”

“Name, rank, and serial number,” said Roy. “For the Flight Nineteen pilots, anyway. I think they’re trained to do that.”

Elsha made a hrmphing sound.

“But that doesn’t answer my question.”

Elsha sighed through her nose. “I must show you. It will answer many questions, including why you are here, what we want from you, and what you can do. But after your appointment with Mother. Follow me, please.”

She set off across the expanse beneath the Bifrost. Off to the right, textured metal decking gave way to a park, lush with low vegetation surrounding medium trees, which surrounded much taller trees. Paths of what looked like crushed nut shells cut into the park, disappearing from sight. The distinctive sound of flowing water met his ears. Minutes later, the wall of foliage gave way to a small grassy expanse roughly the size of a baseball field. Clumps of aliens occupied it, some absorbed in some sort of slow-motion exercise, others in what looked like martial arts, and a few dozen possibly children engaged in rough play overseen by several adults.

“You have a park?”

“Ya,” she said absently. “Of course. Why?”

“That’s not what I would have expected.”

“So what did you expect?”

“I...don’t know.”

“Mm. You will encounter much that you might not expect.” She smiled. “And the park, as you call it, keeps us alive.”

“It does?”

“Oxygen. Eatables. Something pretty to look at that is not metal.”

They reached a wall occupying what looked like the entire side of the ship, a skyscraper towering all the way up to the ceiling, possibly to one of the Bifrost spokes. She tapped a panel and part of the wall slid open. She stepped inside and Roy ducked after her.

Even inside, he had to lean over. Elsha tapped on part of the inside wall. The door slid shut. Almost immediately, the little room rose, quickly passing into a transparent tube through which he could see the park and everything around it. Similar towers lined the walls of the ship, completely encircling the park space and Bifrost.

“Where are we going?”

Elsha did not respond. Moments later, the elevator slid to a stop. A door to its rear slid open with a soft HISS and Elsha ducked out, Roy right behind her.

He found himself inside a well-lit corridor, its pastel blue ceiling only inches above his head. Most of the pale yellow light emanated from upper wall panels mounted just below ceiling level. Roy followed Elsha to a junction.

Roy pointed to a set of runes on the wall. “Those tell us where we are?”

“And what is that way and that way, ya.” She turned right and Roy followed.

“I’m going to have to learn to read those, aren’t I?”

“Unless you enjoy being hopelessly and gloriously lost and helpless every waking moment, ya.”

“Your English is very good,” said Roy. “How’d you manage that?”

“I studied,” she said flatly. Then she chuckled. “Oh, and Father can tell stories of how I resisted. But I do enjoy your historical documents.”

“Historical documents?”

She nodded. “Mm-hm,” she noised brightly. “I Love Lucy. Happy Days. Star Trek. Sesame Street. Buck Rogers. Flash Gordon. Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. Batman. Leave it to Beaver. Gilligan’s Island. The Brady Bunch.”

Roy laughed.

“What?”

“Those aren’t historical documents, they’re television shows! Entertainment!”

“Ah, ya, well. We did eventually conclude that. But much of it is also close to the truth of things.”

Roy shrugged. “I guess.”

“You did ask how I learned English.” She smiled. “Would you like to buy an O?”

“An O?”

“Shh!”

“Huh?”

“It will cost you only a nickel.”

Roy grinned. “Good one. Ernie, right?”

Elsha smiled and nodded. Her smile faded. “Your news reels, on the other hand, have not been so entertaining. And here we are.” 

Runes adorned the wall above a panel set by a door decorated with what Roy recognized as the double-helix of DNA.

Elsha tapped the panel and the door opened into a dark space. Lights flickered to life as they entered the room.

“Welcome to Mother's office,” she said.

Ithuna’s office lacked the sterility of the corridors. A semi-smooth, sage green surface that reminded Roy of Linoleum covered the floor. The walls, also more or less smooth, had been decorated in a brown-and-green pattern reminiscent of bamboo or cedar bark. The ceiling, as he expected, had been finished a shiny, sky blue with paler blotches. The whole effect seemed intended to help the visitor relax.

“It's...nice,” he said. “What does she do?”

“She is a doctor.”

Roy stared at Elsha.

She cocked her head and blinked slowly at him. “You seem tense.”

“This is a doctor’s office. The only thing I dislike more than a doctor visit is a dentist visit.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

Elsha snorted. “But Roi, everyone feels at ease when they visit Mother. Do you not?” She gestured at the décor.

“That all depends on what that is,” he said, nodding at a contraption sitting near the rear of the room.

“A llom-smith,” said Elsha.

“A what?”

“A soul-forge.”

“That doesn't tell me much.”

The door to the corridor opened again. Roy turned to see Ithuna. A brief discussion ensued between her and Elsha.

Ithuna looked at Roy and gestured at the llom-smith. “Please, lay down.”

Roy looked from her to the table, then back to her, then to her mother. “You want me to get on that thing?”

“Of course.”

“But I don’t want my...soul forged.”

Ithuna chuckled. “Oh, it does not do that.”

“Then what _does_ it do?”

“It is a quantum field generator,” said Ithuna.

“What?”

“It transfers molecular energy from one place to another.”

“So it’s a…?”

“Soul-forge,” said Elsha.

Roy groaned. “Is it going to _do_ anything _to_ me?”

“This is a...what is your expression...a check-up.”

Roy exhaled. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” He stepped up to the table, looked suspiciously at it, then back at Ithuna. “You’re sure it’s not going to fry my brain or something?”

“Roi,” she said, sounding hurt, “we will not fry your brain. We would never do such a thing.”

Roy looked from Ithuna to the table to Elsha. “Fine,” he said. He sat down on the table’s edge, swung his feet up, and lay down.

Ithuna and Elsha walked over and looked down at him, their large, dark eyes peering intently at him.

“You’re going to probe me, aren’t you?” said Roy.

“Probe you?” said Elsha.

“In a manner of speaking, ya,” said Ithuna.

Roy bit back a curse, and started to sit. Elsha placed a restraining hand on his chest.

“Please, Roi,” said Ithuna calmly. “We will not harm you.”

“I don’t want to be probed,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Tell me, Roi,” she continued, “when you are ill, and you visit your physician, how does she know what is wrong?”

“He,” said Roy.

“How does _he_ know what is wrong, then?”

Roy described the various tools and methods used by his doctor to determine various problems.

“Mmm,” said Ithuna pensively. “So he probes you, ya?”

“Yes...no...wait, what?”

Ithuna sighed. “Same thing, different tools. What did you think we intended to do?”

“Stick something up my...uh...”

Elsha sporfled laughter. “If you mean what I think you mean, that is the most ridiculous thing I have heard all week!”

Ithuna said something to Elsha in their language and a brief discussion ensued.

Elsha finally rolled her eyes and exhaled heavily. “It would seem,” she said, her voice laden with exasperation, “that this probing you speak of...it is a fear shared by many of you.”

“You don’t say,” said Roy flatly.

“Of all the Midgardri we have hosted,” said Ithuna, “most of them feared probing. A few did not. A few were too young for it to have crossed their minds. A few others...said they wanted it.”

Roy grimaced.

“Curious people,” said Elsha.

“Now,” said Ithuna, “if you would please relax, Roi, we will begin.”

Roy settled back onto the table, though he still didn’t feel terribly relaxed.

Ithuna touched something out of Roy’s field of view. The room's lights dimmed, except for the table’s surface, which glowed with a soft golden light. Ithuna placed her hands over him. Shapes appeared in mid-air. Some of them he recognized as human systems and organs, one displayed after another, all with runes identifying or indicating something Roy could barely guess.

“Hmm,” said Ithuna, “your heart rate is elevated compared to what our records show it should be. You are not calm.”

“Really, you think?”

Elsha exhaled heavily. “How can we see to your medical needs if we do not know what they are? And how can we know unless you relax?”

“Would your physician treat you for high blood pressure if you do not, in fact, _have_ high blood pressure?”

“You’re grilling me,” said Roy.

“Oh, nei,” said Elsha, sounding horrified, “we would never do that!” She smiled. “We like you too much. Besides, we are...how do you say...vegetarians?”

Roy furrowed his brow. Elsha reached up with a hand and stroked his forehead. “Be at peace, Roi Marthason.”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“All creatures will make merry, on pain of death.”

Roy chuckled. “Flash Gordon.”

Elsha’s smile broadened and she giggled. “That is better,” she said, removing her hand.

Ithuna continued to move her hands in the air, the images shifting and changing. Now and again, she said something in her language, or tapped on her slate. Runes appeared, scrolled through space, and vanished. After what felt like forever, but was probably no more than fifteen or twenty minutes, the light under him faded and the ambient room lights brightened.

“There,” said Ithuna, “we are finished.”

“That was not so difficult, was it?” Elsha added.

“So you...scanned me?”

“More or less,” said Ithuna.

“You mean, like on ‘Star Trek?’”

“Ya,” said Elsha.

“You could have said so before.”

Elsha cast him a look. “We _did_ say so before,” she insisted.

“I see a few immediate problems I would like to address,” said Ithuna.

“Like what?”

Ithuna tapped her slate. The image of a DNA strand appeared in mid-space. Several segments lit up.

“These are obvious problem areas,” she said. “You have certain immune problems.”

“Immune problems?”

“I believe you call them allergies,” she said. “And your telomeres need restoring.”

“You don’t say.”

“I do say.”

“How do you know all this?”

Elsha exhaled heavily. “Perhaps I should show you. Mother needs time to analyze your data...and your DNA.”

* * *

After another round of seemingly endless corridors, Elsha stopped outside a double door decorated with a strange swirly pattern and glared at Roy. “Some of us have suggested that we should leave you to the mercy of the Virini.”

“They did?”

“Implied, actually. It is entirely...theoretical...anyway, as the Virini are entirely without mercy.” She tapped a panel beside the door. It slid open and she led him into a completely dark space. The door slid shut, plunging them into blackness.

“Uh...Elsha?”

“Mm?” she replied. A faint glow appeared from her slate. She tapped on it.

“What...”

An image abruptly appeared before him in mid-space. It showed a beautiful blue and green planet half-illuminated by a sun and slowly rotating against a star-field as seen from perhaps half the distance from Earth to the Moon. The geography was as familiar to him as the back of his hand.

“I am going to show you a series of images archived over millennia. It is part of your history that you seem to have forgotten.”

“You studied that, too?”

“It went something like, ‘Elsha, you and your family are going to Midgard. Study up.’ At the time, I had just passed six winters, and I had very little idea what that meant. Only that Midgard is one of the many worlds we Esiri protect, and that going there meant more homework for me.”

“Oh, poor you.”

Elsha made a hrmphing sound. “This is, of course, Midgard.”

“Earth,” said Roy. “We call it Earth.”

“Rth,” she said pensively. “I like ‘Midgard’ better. Long ago, our world was attacked by the Virini. We still do not know where they come from, only that they migrate around the galaxy. They destroy everything they find, stripping every world of every resource, leaving nothing usable behind. When they are finished, they extract its core, leaving a shattered shell in their wake. They are a scourge. Vile, disgusting, heinous, dissolute creatures, the lot of them.”

“You said they attacked you.”

She grinned. “We are...stubborn. Using...what do you call it...guerilla tactics...we defeated the Virini and drove them from Asgard. We feared they would return and that next time, we might not survive. As we grew in numbers, so also we grew in knowledge, and in strength, and leaped out across the heavens.

“In some places, we encountered worlds already with sentient life. In others, the remains of Virini occupation. In others still, there was some life, and in others, none at all. We knew the strength of numbers. So those we met, we either befriended, or at least negotiated a...truce.

“We also devised an ambitious plan to build places we could go should we need to flee the Virini. And we needed to make more allies. So we designed worlds and began to build them, as you say, from scratch. Midgard was the first.”

“Wait, wait, wait. _You_ created Earth? No, no way.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’d have to be billions of years old.”

“No not be absurd, Roi. I have only passed seventeen winters.”

“And how long is that?”

“The orbital period of Midgard is nearly the same as that of Asgard. Now, pay attention.” The image changed. Instead of the continents Roy knew, an unfamiliar geography spanned the planet in the image, a geography of smaller seas and larger continents.

“Midgard looked like this originally. We settled on this configuration after consulting with the Magratheni. Then we put life on it. In stages, of course, monitoring each one until it was stable.

“The process was very involved. After we put you on Midgard, we went away on other errands. When we returned a thousand years later, we found a wasteland. The Virini had attacked. Why they did not finish the job, we do not know. But the surface of Migard had been completely rearranged.”

The familiar continental configuration in the image returned. Through gaps in the cloud cover, ice and snow covered much of the northern hemisphere.

“But you had survived somehow, when many other forms of life had perished, never to return. And some that had survived did not recover well enough to persist.

“We realized then that even despite our growing numbers, we cannot be everywhere at once. We expanded our armada and with it the worlds we oversaw. We gave tools to the people. Some wielded them well, others poorly. We increased the frequency of our visits to Midgard.

“One time, a little more than a thousand years ago, we arrived in the middle of a Virini attack. One of their Yormugad-class ships had begun drilling into the planet...here.”

A light appeared over what Roy recognized as northwestern Wyoming, the location of Yellowstone National Park. Something like an immense black spider squatted over Earth. From that angle, Roy couldn't tell what it was doing, although a plume of smoke or ash drifted eastward between the “legs.”

“What the hell is _that!?_ ” Roy blurted.

“I just told you,” she said, a tone of irritation in her voice. “Much ash poured from that place, plunging your world into one long winter. We fought them, of course.”

The image changed again. A much smaller vessel, one that looked a little like Lopt-hyarta, drifted across space. Every so often, a distortion rippled around it, immediately followed by an eruption of flame from the dorsal hull of the Yormugad. Small flecks flitted about between the two vessels, a space filled with what looked like little sparks.

It zoomed in until the Esiri vessel loomed above Roy's head. Small craft, looking something like squids, flitted into and out of Roy's field of view. Other small craft, looking sort of like black crabs fired glowing green blobs at the squids and the Esiri vessel and they both fired back. The whole thing reminded Roy of air battle footage from World War II and the movies about them. But the fighter craft numbered in the thousands and hurtled about the field of engagement at break-neck speeds.

“But we had to call for...reinforcements. They arrived after three years. Ships from Asgard, Alfhem, Sfartalfhem, and Adelshem. Together, we disabled the Yormugad, and set it upon a decaying orbit toward your sun.”

The image shifted back to the wide view. Numerous vessels, some of them Esiri, some ominously wedge-shaped, and others like flying potatoes, pounded at the Yormugad. Fire erupted in multiple places about its hull, and blue electrical arcs danced about its surface. Slowly, it moved away from Earth, and began tumbling ponderously toward the sun.

“The other craft, which we called Naglfar, was still in orbit, and had released many smaller vessels we call Surti.”

The imaged pulled back and focused on another black-skinned vessel vaguely resembling a man-of-war jellyfish. A few other craft, Roy recognized as immense flying saucers, loitered about.

“We disabled it as well, and likewise sent it into your sun. The Surti had already begun to rain fire upon Midgard.”

The image changed again, now on Earth's surface. One of these Surti hovered over a city. From its ventral center, a bright blue-green light shot out, obliterating everything within what Roy guessed to be at least a ten-mile radius.

“These, we attacked. Some crashed on the surface, others managed to leave orbit.”

A battle, like the one Roy had been shown, ensued just above Earth's surface, reminding him even more strongly of World-War-II air battles. Each strike against a Virini vessel resulted in a small flash of green around the impact site and a brief delay before apparent hull damage occurred.

“Some of the Virini ground forces had already been deployed. Your people fought back valiantly, all over your world. But armed only with steel blades, arrows, and rock-throwing machines, their effectiveness was limited. I am told your warriors impressed us.”

Other ships, looking something like sharks, touched down on the ground, disgorging ground machines and apparently living things so hideously ugly, they defied description. They fought with humans, spitting more of that greenish blobby stuff. Everything it hit disintegrated into ash. At range, the human warriors didn't stand a chance.

Once they managed to close to hand-to-hand distance, the situation changed. Swords and spears tore the Virini apart. But it was too little too late. Even someone like Roy, with no military experience, could tell the humans couldn't win.

The Virini craft suddenly exploded on the ground. The Virini troops, momentarily distracted by the sudden turn of events, briefly stopped fighting. Small balls of light erupted from the viewing angle, ripping into the Virini lines. Blurs of motion and charcoal-colored round shields lined up. Bars of blue light erupted up and down the shield line. It advanced, mowing down the Virini where they stood.

After a few moments, the image faded. The room's illumination came up a second later.

Elsha looked up at him. “That incident alone illustrated the importance of equipping the people of the known worlds with the tools needed to resist the Virini.”

“That's why I'm here, isn't it?” It was more of a statement.

She nodded.

“But how? What can I do against that? I'm just one guy!”

“Learn all you can, and bring that back to your people.”

“They won't believe me.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Then we will explain it to them,” she said flatly. “Together.” She sighed. “It has been a long day. We should retire. Come with me, please.”

* * *

Another voyage through Lopt-hyarta's decorated corridors proceeded without conversation. Roy tried as he might to reconcile what he'd been shown with what he thought he knew of his own history, while also trying to pay attention to the runes placed at each junction and the changing artistic decoration on walls.

The designs varied in form and color. Green and brown in some places, blues in others, reds, oranges, and purples in others still. In most places, the decoration obviously represented various plant life, in others, various strange animals real or imagined. One thing was certain: without Elsha, Roy would most certainly become, as she'd put it, hopelessly and gloriously lost.

At length, and after ascending several more levels, they arrived at another door, this one faced with hammered copper, kept bright by apparent polishing, and inlaid with a trio of interlaced triangles in some iridescent metal. Elsha had called the design a ‘valknut,’ the symbol of the Imperial household, here flanked by a pair of dog-like animals, ‘yelin beasts,’ rendered in flowing, interwoven lines in hues of black, red, and green.

“Welcome to our humble abode,” she said.

The contrast between the corridor and this space could not have been more striking. Matte beige decking transitioned abruptly to what Roy might have mistaken for Persian carpets, if not for the clearly alien motifs woven into them.

Wooden planks, stained a rich golden color highlighting vivid purple grain and knots, lined walls and ceiling. Something that looked like a stone fireplace occupied part of one wall. Across the room, an open door let in bright pulsating light and a subtle breeze from the ship’s interior.

A large table, hewn in a single piece of some reddish wood, occupied part of the space. At least a dozen wooden chairs sat near the fireplace, around the table, and in a space near the outside door. Several benches and tables, some bare, others holding cushions or objects unfamiliar to Roy, also occupied space.

Opposite the table, a collection of stainless-steel counters and miscellaneous implements--some familiar, some not--suggested a kitchen.

On both sides of both the living area and the kitchen, wooden slabs and the now-familiar access panels marked doors to interior spaces Roy could only guess.

Spaced more or less evenly about the walls, small panels gave an amber light reminiscent of torch sconces. Near the open area, two large rectangular ceramic vessels held miniature gardens, the small colorful plants tucked around angular rocks.

“Wow,” he said. “It’s...homey.”

“Do you like it?”

He nodded. “Someone went to a lot of trouble to make the place look like a hunting lodge.”

Elsha frowned. “Is that a good thing?”

“Sure. I guess. I mean, a lot of my best memories were made in places like this. Or, uh, places that look like this.”

She nodded. “It is meant to be like Sesrum, our Great Hall, on Asgard. But...” She looked up and gestured toward the low ceiling. “...there are limitations.”

Roy’s eyebrows went up. “You rebuilt your great hall here on this starship?”

“In a way. Sesrum is far grander, of course. Tell me, Roi, if you went on a long voyage, would you not bring with you some reminders of home? That is, if you planned it.”

“Home away from home?”

“Exactly, ya.”

The door to the corridor opened again.

“Mother,” said Elsha brightly. A brief conversation in the Esiri language ensued.

“I see you two are becoming better acquainted,” said Ithuna.

Elsha nodded. “I showed him our own historical documents.” At Ithuna’s raised eyebrow, she continued. “He asked questions I could only answer with a history lesson.”

Ithuna nodded. “Has she shown you to your quarters?”

Roy shook his head. He noticed Elsha stiffen.

“She has not told you,” Ithuna added.

“You will be sleeping with me,” said Elsha flatly.

“Uh...what?”

“We have rearranged my quarters. You have your own bed, your own space for your possessions. That is,” she added, “when you have some.”

“I see,” said Roy. He looked at Ithuna. “You trust me with your daughter?”

“I volunteered,” said Elsha.

“You don’t seem happy about it.”

“It does not matter.”

“It doesn’t?”

“I volunteered,” she repeated, evidently unwilling to discuss it further.

“I trust you,” said Ithuna. “If it were not so, then we would make other arrangements. If we were wrong, you would quickly learn that my daughter is quite capable of taking care of herself.”

“But she's seventeen,” Roy protested.

“Seventeen what?”

“Years old.”

“Why would that matter?” Ithuna asked.

“Because I'm thirty-three. That's old enough to be her father...barely.”

Ithuna raised an eyebrow. “What is your point?”

Roy opened his mouth, then closed it again, his brain grinding around itself as he tried to figure out how to explain the situation to his hosts. Hosts who clearly had radically different ideas about the whole arrangement. He quickly gave up.

“Imperial family?” Roy asked, changing the subject slightly.

“My parents,” said Ithuna. “Father is Emperor.”

Roy shot Elsha a glance. “And you want me to sleep in the same room as a...princess?”

Ithuna shrugged. “When we made the arrangements, we did not know who among you was to stay with us.”

“What if I turned out not to be trustworthy?”

“That is not the case. So why does it matter?”

“I...don’t know. It just feels...I’m not sure.”

“When my mother told me, ‘Ithuna, you are to marry Bragi Gunludason,’ I did not know what to think, or how to feel either. So you are in good company, ya? Shall we show you around?”

“Sure. But first...where’s the, um, bathroom?”

“Bathroom?” Ithuna asked.

“You know...uh...” Roy explained it in what had to have been the most awkward way possible.

“Oh, that. There.” She pointed across the room to a small door.

Roy walked over and tapped the small wall panel. The door slid open and a subdued light inside flickered to life. He stepped inside.

He recognized very little. He had to duck slightly to see his reflection in the small mirror mounted to the wall above what was clearly a sink basin. On the floor nearby sat what looked like a green porcelain flowerpot. He backed out of the little room.

“Um...where’s the...toilet paper?”

“Explain, please,” said Elsha.

Roy half-stifled a sigh. Did he really have to explain that, too? After his halting explanation, the two Esiri women looked at each other for a long moment.

“Oh,” said Ithuna dismissively, “use the Three Seashells, of course.”

Roy looked back into the room, only now noticing three creamy white seashells sitting on a small shelf near the flowerpot. He’d thought they’d been there simply for decoration. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.

“Uh...what do I do with those?” he asked, dreading the answer even as he spoke.

Elsha attempted to stifle laughter. “He does not know how to use the Three Seashells!” she half-spluttered.

Ithuna smiled. “Elsha, it is not funny.” Although she said it in a way that suggested she not-so-secretly agreed with her daughter, and was making an effort to avoid laughing herself.

“Ya, it is,” Elsha insisted.

“Perhaps,” said Ithuna, “we should show him the visual presentation.”

“Visual presentation?” said Roy. “What visual presentation?”

Ithuna pulled her slate from her pouch, tapped on it several times, then turned it about and handed it to Roy.

He took it, watching some sort of video play on the screen. The more it went on, the wider his eyes grew, the higher his eyebrows rose, and the less control Elsha had of the laughter bubbling up from inside her.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Roy said when the video had finished.

Elsha lost it at that moment, collapsing into a nearby chair in a fit of musical laughter. Roy could tell it was going to be a very long rest of his life among the Esiri.


	2. Chapter 2

“Roi? Roi. Roi! Wake up!”

Elsha’s voice cut through the cobwebs tangling Roy’s mind. He opened his eyes and groaned.

Elsha stood over him, side-lit by the prismatic Bifrost light coming from outside. She wore what looked like a well-worn sleeveless brown soft leather tunic that flared out at the waist and stopped halfway to her knees. She thrust something toward him.

“Here,” she said, “drink this.”

An aroma at once familiar and strange filled his nostrils. He glanced down at the red-glazed pottery mug of dark brown liquid she held up to him. He took it hesitantly with both hands and took a sip. What crossed his lips and tongue was something almost, but not quite, totally unlike coffee.

“What is this?” he croaked.

“I told you not to drink so much mead so quickly.”

He winced. “Not so loud.”

She hrmphed. “Drink now. Complain later.”

Roy took another sip. “Give me a minute. Or ten.”

“We will be late.”

“For what?”

“Just drink. Then put on this.” She dropped something suspiciously fabric-like into his lap.

He looked down. “Wh...what happened to my...jumpsuit?”

“You do not remember?”

He groaned, then took another sip of the not-coffee. “Not really.”

Elsha sighed through her nose. “You drank your mead in one swallow. Then you fell over and...what is that expression...passed out. You woke up again a short time later and immediately made a very big mess.”

“Mess? What kind of mess?”

She peered at him. “Your clothing was ruined.”

Some of the previous evening was starting to come back to him. In flashes, mostly. Elsha’s family returning from wherever they’d been. Esiri children asking him questions in their language while Elsha, Ithuna, and Bragi interpreted by committee. The beginnings of a meal made up of unfamiliar but delicious foods. And the ill-fated Asgardian mead.

“We had to cut it off and destroy it,” she continued. “No great loss, really. We all hated it anyway. What was it made of, sadness? Also, we had to cut most of the hair from your head.”

“What?” Roy’s free hand shot up to the top of his head, his palm meeting only stubble. He glared at Elsha. “Couldn’t you have shampooed it?”

She scowled back at him. “Sham-pu?” She shrugged. “I have it on good authority that your hair will grow back. While it does that, your head skin will be much easier for you to clean. Do you have any idea how much work it was to clean you and your mess?”

Roy held her gaze for a few moments before nodding. “Yeah,” he said regretfully. “Yeah, I do.” A few wild frat parties during his undergrad years, and then three children since then had taught him a few things about dealing with messes. “And I apologize. Can I make it up to you?”

Elsha regarded him for several moments. “We all discussed it while you lay drooling on the floor. We agreed only that you did not do it on purpose. You can begin by not making us late. Finish your drink and get dressed, please.”

“Late for what?”

“The first day of the rest of your life.” She peered at him, apparently awaiting a response, hands crossed over her chest.

Roy sighed, finished his drink, and set the mug on a nearby low table. He stood up, trying to hold his new garment in one hand, and the sheet in the other. “Could you, um...”

Elsha made an eye-rolling gesture and turned her back to him. “Is this sufficient?”

“Thanks.” He dropped the sheet and pulled over his head the garment that turned out to be a tunic similar to the ones he’d seen all the males wearing, his in a gunmetal grey. The head opening was a bit too large, the arms far too short, and it came down nearly to his knees. But it was plenty wide enough that he could move easily.

“We meant to make it properly. But we had to...improvise.”

“You planned to make me new clothes?”

“Of course,” she said, turning around. “That came out well, all things considered. Now, let us go.”

She led the way to the door.

“What about shoes?” He gestured to the brown leather slippers on Elsha’s feet.

“Shoes are more complicated,” she said. “And you may have noticed that your feet are much larger than ours. Besides, it is better to make shoes for your foot shape, than to use something general. I am afraid you will have to go barefooted for a while.”

“Barefooted?” he spluttered.

“Ya, why? 

He followed her out the door and down the corridor.

“I feel like I’m in a hospital,” he complained.

“Stop being so...dramatic.”

At length, and several direction changes later, she stopped in front of another door. “You will not understand what is said,” she told him. “Just sit, watch, listen, and learn all you can.”

Inside, woven mats of some tawny material covered the floor, save for a small area beside the door. A row of shoes of various types lay along the edges of the mat. Elsha kicked off her own and stepped onto the mat, padding over to a gap in a ring of people.

Roy followed her, keenly aware of the several dozen pair of eyes all apparently fixed on him. He knelt beside Elsha. For several moments, no one moved. Then a male on the other side of the circle spoke.

As Elsha had promised, Roy didn’t understand any of it. Whatever it was, it sounded like the guided meditation a few of his karate sensei had favored. Even back then, Roy had thought it all superstitious nonsense. Yet here, in this flying castle of advanced technology, the people from another world embraced that very thing.

Great, he thought, Elsha talks about war, and here we are in a room full of alien hippies.

After what felt like five minutes, but was probably one, Roy leaned over to Elsha.

“What are we doing?” he muttered.

“Hush,” she whispered.

A few moments later, “How much longer is this going to take?”

“Hush,” she said again.

“Elsha...”

“Consider the flame of a candle,” she said quietly.

“You have candles?”

“Of course. Now pay attention. Consider the flame.”

“Consider the flame,” he muttered.

The male across the circle stopped talking. Roy once more felt all eyes upon himself.

“Elsha Ithunasdottir,” he said, then added more in the Esiri language. A short conversation followed.

Elsha exhaled through her nose, then stood up and padded to the center of the circle.

“Roi Marthason,” she said, "you fail to grasp tekanlep. Please come here.”

Roy rocked to his feet, then took the few steps separating himself from Elsha. “We’re going to do something now?”

Without warning, she hopped up into the air, easily rising her own body height, and kicked Roy in the head.

He stumbled backward, squeezed his eyes shut, and blinked. “ _Ow!_ You booted me in the head!”

“You are fortunate,” Elsha said, alighting nimbly on the floor. “Few novices experience so much of tekanlep so soon.”

Roy shook his head sharply, then went into a fighting stance. “Oh, yeah? Well I know karate!”

Elsha snorted, then struck again. Roy parried her first blow. Her second hit him again in the head.

“Gah! I wasn’t ready! Try it aga...” WHUMP! Roy went down hard.

Elsha stepped over to him. “Are you ready to...”

Roy struck out with a foot, sweeping Elsha’s legs out from under her. She hung in mid-air for what seemed like a couple of seconds. Roy tapped her in the side with his foot and she dropped. He rolled awkwardly into a crouch position.

What followed, Roy could only have described as a mixed martial arts bar brawl, an awkward jumble of kicks and punches. Just who landed what and when was mostly a blur. Finally, the facilitator, sensei, master, or whatever the Esiri called him, stepped in front of Roy as he knelt on hands and knees, glaring across three yards at Elsha’s dark, vibrant eyes.

The male said something.

“He wants to know,” Elsha panted, “if we have both had enough.”

Roy’s left arm chose that moment to buckle, spilling him onto the mat. “Fine,” he half spat. “I’m done.” He certainly didn’t _want_ to be done. But his body, in no uncertain words, had other ideas.

When it was all over, probably no more than five or ten minutes later, he was sure of only two things: Elsha could hit _hard_ ; and he was going to be a single mass of pain the next morning.

For the remainder of the session, he knelt beside Elsha, the matting digging into his knees. Every so often, one of them shot the other a look, sometimes a glare, sometimes something else.

At last, they all rose and bowed.

“Ithunasdottir! Marthason!” barked the sensei.

“Ya, syr?” said Elsha.

A brief exchange followed. Then Elsha glared at Roy. “I told you we should not be late. Now we must do punishment burpii.”

“Punishment what?”

Elsha exhaled, then squatted down with her hands a little in front of her. She thrust her legs back into the push-up position, did a push-up, then pulled her legs back between her hands, and jumped up.

“That,” she said, “is a burpi. We must both do ten of those. This time.” She dropped back to the floor and was well into the third burpi before the sensei barked something at him that he didn’t understand, but with all-too-clear intent.

Roy groaned, then began his first. By the time he’d done five, he was sucking wind. Elsha had finished before he’d started his seventh and by the time he was done, his throat felt like sandpaper. He stood there, heaving.

“Do not be late, Roi,” Elsha panted. “Do not ever be late.”

His half-limping trip back “home,” along yet another confusing series of twists, turns, and elevators, he only half-remembered. At last, Elsha sat him down into a beanbag chair. Or, rather, she half pushed, half dropped him into it.

She walked out of his line of sight. He heard gently-trickling water splashing into a container, and Elsha humming that five-note tune he’d heard repeated over and over during his climb down from Devil’s Tower to the landing compound.

“What’s that tune you’re humming?” he asked.

“That? Oh, it is from a popular children’s song.”

Roy craned his neck around. Something cricked between his vertebrae. “A nursery rhyme? Your people were playing nursery rhymes to us?”

She snorted amid the sounds of wood, metal, and ceramic intermittently hitting each other. “We have a sense of humor.” She chuckled. “Your people’s response was amusing.”

“Uh-huh,” he said flatly.

Elsha returned a moment later with a small, light blue ceramic bowl and an off-white cloth. She dipped the cloth into the bowl, then squeezed out the excess liquid.

“This might sting a little,” she said, then began to dab at his face with it.

He winced.

“I told you to hurry. I also told you to watch and listen. You did neither. You should learn to trust me, Roi. I do not mean to make your life unduly difficult.”

“I'm sorry,” he said. To his own surprise, he meant it.

“This ka-ra-ti of yours,” she said after a few moments. “It does not seem very effective.”

“Well...it is, if you’re good enough. I’m just...kind of rusty.”

“Rusty? Explain, please.”

“It’s been...” He paused and thought for a moment. “...ten years since I’ve done anything serious with it.”

“Ah, so you are out of practice. That will make a difference.”

“You don't say. How long have you been doing...what did you call it...tekanlep?”

“Since I could walk. Almost.”

Roy let out a low whistle. “No wonder you’re good.”

Elsha giggled. “You flatter me.”

“I got my ass handed to me by a seventeen-year-old girl. I think the results speak for themselves.”

She dabbed his head some more. “I hit you too hard. Anger is a weapon only to one's opponent. I apologize.”

“Don’t worry about it. I needed that anyway.”

She looked at him quizzically.

“I was a jerk. I’m sorry.” He winced again as she dabbed at another spot on his head. “Are you sure you don’t have a tricorder or something?”

“What do you mean?”

“You have all this technology. Can't you just...fix my wounds?”

“The body will heal itself. Sometimes it needs a little help. Besides, pain is a reminder.”

“I thought pain was weakness leaving the body.”

She cocked her head. “Oh? Who says that?”

“Something my gym coach said back in high school. He was ex-military. Marines, I think.”

“An interesting perspective. Still, your pain will remind you of what you have learned.”

After a few more moments, she dipped the cloth back into the bowl and began to dab the abrasions she’d sustained. When she was satisfied, she took the bowl away. Roy heard some sounds coming from behind him.

“Have you tried negotiating? With the Virini, I mean.”

“Many times. Every attempt has failed.”

“How long did you say you've been fighting them?”

“Hundreds of thousands of years. No one has ever made peace with them. Not us, not any race we know.”

“Why me?”

Elsha walked back into view, kicked off her shoes, and perched on the edge of what Roy would have called an arm-chair. She sat like that for a few moments, a leg waving slightly, and wiggling the four long toes on her foot.

“Why you what?” she asked at length.

“Why did your people choose me?”

“You responded. Other than that, I do not know.”

“You don't like me, do you?”

“That is not important.”

“Then what is? What's bothering you? And don't say it's me.”

She exhaled. “Father began negotiations with Hertog Arnrod Wesilden before we left Asgard. About my marriage to him.”

Roy cocked an eyebrow. “You're married?”

She hopped off the chair's arm and spun around, a bit more briskly that was warranted in Roy's opinion, before walking back to the kitchen.

“Not yet,” she snorted.

He heard more sounds, clinking glass, running water, a door opening and closing.

“There is a process,” she said as she went about her task, “and the decision has not been made. At the moment, it is...an interesting idea, you might say. But the more I learn of him, the less I like him. I find the idea very distasteful, and that is a tactful way of saying so.”

“Why don't you just refuse?”

“It is complicated. Especially since I am the only granddaughter of the Emperor. I do have a say, but it weighs much less than Mother's opinion. Catch!”

Roy saw something flying at him out of the corner of his eye. He reached for it with both hands. It bounced off, he grabbed for it again, fumbled it a second time, and finally caught it. He peered at the object, roughly the size of his fist, pale yellow and slightly squishy.

“Is that why you study tekanlep?" he asked, still peering at the object. "So you can kick Hertog's ass?”

She chuckled. “Arnrod. Hertog is his title. But, ya. Even if I did like him, my heart lies elsewhere.”

“Oh?”

She walked back into his field of view and handed him a tumbler of blue-frosted glass containing an opaque white liquid. She perched on the chair again with her own glass and orb of cheese.

“I want to be a Valkira, a combat pilot. To do that, I must be admitted to the Enheryeri. To do that, I must pass the tests. To do that, I must perform well in the Academy at Valhala. To do that, I must be admitted. To do that, I must perform very well here. It also happens that you are assigned to me.”

“And that's why you resent having to...babysit me. And you volunteered for some of it to get your mind off of Arnrod. But you didn't think about the...complications.”

She looked away and nodded. “Eat your bantha cheese.”

Roy took a tentative bite. The texture was very close to cheddar, the flavor tart like yogurt, with the tang of goat cheese, and a slightly nutty undertone.

Roy chewed pensively, his mind mulling the opportunity before him. His purpose for being here was to learn how to fight the Virini, and to take the tools back to Earth. And if that also helped Elsha deal with this Arnrod character... He took a sip of his drink, almost like milk, but with a slightly gritty texture and a slight cinnamon taste that almost competed with the minty fragrance wafting from Elsha.

“Combat pilot, huh?”

“Ya.”

He looked into her eyes and smiled. “How many burpis will we have to do?”

Elsha grinned. “As many as necessary.”


	3. Chapter 3

A dull click and a soft splurching sound accompanied a slight vibration. Roy stepped back and glanced at the chronometer fixed to the bulkhead.

“Phew! A new record, I think,” he said in Esirin.

Elsha stood up, looked at the chronometer, then beamed at Roy with hands on hips. “I believe so, ya.”

He caught yet another of the countless glimmers in her gorgeous deep turquoise eyes, still amazed at how so much had changed over the year he'd been aboard _Lopt-hyarta_. He couldn't help but smile.

He rested a gloved hand on the Morfil-class bomber beside him. Even through that, he could feel the bumpy texture of its skin.

“I still think of this as a dinosaur,” he said, patting it.

Elsha considered this. “You and your dainosori,” she said, rolling her eyes slightly, an effect rendered so subtle by a lack of white sclera, that it had once been completely lost on him. But her tone carried that certain teasing quality that had cropped up at some nebulous point in time.

The first two months in Elsha's nearly-continuous company had been torturous. He'd immediately found her to be difficult. Not in the way that Brad had been difficult with his fractions. No, that probably had been a case of the boy convincing himself that it was going to be too hard. Elsha had just been...stubborn. And, well, she still was.

Much had changed over the three days of the Festifas celebration, which marked the point at which everyone aboard, including Roy, was considered to have passed their next winter.

The family had decorated the traditional bronze pole in the usual bits of paper, cloth, and leather, after ceremonially burning the previous year's in a shallow bronze brazier and sprinkling the ashes over the little container rock garden.

But when the time had come for the Airing of Grievances, he and Elsha had let loose on each other. Much of what they'd yelled had nothing at all to do with the other. But they'd been issues all the same, issues that had been weighing on each of their minds, conspiring to sour mind and spirit. After they'd thoroughly vented, relations between them had improved dramatically.

So much so, that even on the final day, during the Feats of Strength, they'd faced each other with smiles on their faces. To everyone's surprise, Roy had won. And he and Elsha had exchanged their first platonic hug.

Oh, he'd laughed when Elsha had explained the rules ahead of time. In a ship-wide wrestling tournament, each household held their own contest. Whoever succeeded in pinning the Head of Household, without resorting to any manipulation of gravity, was to represent that household as its Champion in the Tournament.

Apparently, none of the Esiri had seen American wrestling, let alone been on a high school team. Roy hadn't been particularly good at it back then, but it had been enough to defeat Admiral Loki in the final round of competition. Never mind that Loki had subtly cheated.

That seemed to be expected of him. Some decades before, he'd entered the competition dressed as a female in order to distract his opponent. It had worked, although that opponent had been an ambassador from Stavromula-beta named Sfathilfari. Somehow, by means no one seemed able or willing to discuss, Loki had wound up unexpectedly pregnant, to everyone's chagrin. The child, named Slepnir, had been born with four additional tentacle-ish appendages. Slepnir had eventually pursued a high-level study of applied theoretical physics, going by a moniker Roy understood to correlate roughly to 'Dr. Octopus' and had developed the Tesseract warhead regularly and successfully deployed against the Virini.

Still, it hadn't hurt that Roy had a distinct strength and mass advantage over everyone else on the ship.

It had also helped that Roy had decided to turn over a new leaf himself. He'd told himself that if he'd had another chance to do it all over again, he'd change a few things. Which included actually listening to Elsha.

Roy smiled back at her. “Maybe. But I think I'm starting to see the beauty in these things.”

“Roi, he is not a thing,” she insisted.

He just nodded with a wordless, 'whatever you say, darling.' The two of them were probably never going to agree on that. Try as he might, he still couldn't accept that Esirin combat craft were alive. Even after Elsha had explained, and later shown him, how they were grown around an unobtainium superstructure and the rest of their internal components related to propulsion, directional control, weapons, navigation, life support, and so on.

There was no argument that the all-inorganic craft he'd seen on Earth weren't alive. But combat craft moved and responded like living things. The ship they'd just loaded even had visible scar tissue—white, fibrous material cross-crossing the brown-and-green mottled skin that looked like it might have been peeled off a northern pike--from healed wounds sustained in combat. For that matter, Roy thought they vaguely resembled squid. Still, the most he'd been able to concede was Spock's “It's life, Jim, but not as we know it.” Apparently, that had been enough for Elsha, or nearly so.

Roy turned away from the bomber and joined Elsha in shoving the ordnance cart back to its spot near the edge of the Blue Wing bay.

“Right,” he said, “next...”

A klaxon interrupted him. “ORANGE ALERT...ORANGE ALERT...ALL PERSONNEL TO STATIONS...THIS IS NOT A DRILL...ORANGE ALERT...ORANGE ALERT...”

Roy and Elsha looked at each other for a moment before sprinting off across the bay.

“Ithunasdottir! Marthason! Suit up!”

The pair screeched to a halt, looked at each other again.

“Was that...?” Roy began.

“Kaptein Hildi Lornisdottir, Blue Leader,” Elsha finished.

That could only mean one thing. They spun around and sprinted toward the locker rooms. He could almost feel her vibrating. Several minutes later, they bounded back across the hanger bay. Roy took a few moment to admire her figure in her grey leather flight suit.

“You look good in that, by the way,” he said.

“I do?”

“Yep.”

“But it is the same thing you are wearing.”

Roy shrugged, a gesture he was sure fell flat from his jogging, the helmet tucked under his arm, and the lingering unfamiliarity with certain variations in body language. He shot her a grin.

“You look good in leather,” he said as they trotted. “Just saying.”

Elsha rolled her eyes. “Some of your ways baffle me, Roi. But I must admit, you also look good in leather.”

“See?” he teased.

“I am sure I do not know what you are talking about,” she teased back.

Roy shot her a grin and she beamed back at him.

They slipped into the semi-circle of other pilots. Elsha stood in front, Roy behind her with a hand resting lightly on the small of her back. She didn’t seem to notice.

“Now that we are all here,” said Kaptein Lornisdottir, “we will begin. We have detected the presence of a Yotun-class vessel and have dropped into normal space to intercept.”

“A Yotun?” asked one of the other pilots. “This close to Imperial space?”

“Unexpected to be sure,” said Lornisdottir. “Naturally, the Admiral has ordered us to attack.”

“But why?”

“Do you have a problem with that, Pilot?”

“Nei, Fru. But...” A glare cut him off.

The Kaptein tapped her slate. A three-dimensional image appeared in mid-space. At its center, a representation of _Lopt-hyarta_ , and toward the edge, a substantially larger cube. The holographic model of _Lopt-hyarta_ slowly pivoted to turn toward the Yotun.

“We will be executing Attack Pattern Thorn,” the Kaptein continued. “Elsha Ithunasdottir and Roi Marthason will be in Position Seven. Any questions?” Silence. “Let us bring it!”

“Asgard am bith!” came the collective response.

Roy and Elsha turned around. “Position seven,” he said in English, “that's the one we were just loading, right?”

“Ya,” she said.

They trotted back to their assigned bomber. Its size still struck him. He'd seen large aircraft before. Commercial jet-liners. Military cargo jets. A Morfil-class bomber was at least the size of a dozen tractor-trailers. The entire hull was a mottled brown-grey-green color. A small, clear bubble protruded from its dorsal side. Several long, thin protuberances projected from the bow, arranged around what Roy thought resembled a maw. Fins and other projections stuck out from various places. In short, the whole thing gave Roy the impression of some sort of squat squid with hints of northern pike thrown in for good measure.

Roy paused in front of the crew access orifice. Elsha bolted right past him. “Hurry up!” she barked over her shoulder. He took a deep breath and followed her.

Some days, he could forget about some of the strangeness of certain branches of Esirin technology. One of those was their bioengineering. As he stepped from hull plate to ladder rung, he still couldn't quite tell the difference between the organic and inorganic elements.

Small luminous spots a few inches across cast a dull ruddy light on features that looked eerily like ribs, networks of what could have been veins or nerves. Roy made a mental note to work some more reading into his routine, still thankful that each squadron had a fully-trained and dedicated team of what Elsha had called 'veterinary technicians.'

He climbed the a steep stair-ladder after Elsha, only half-thankful that she wasn't wearing skirts and that the light was too dim to see anything even if she had, or that the serious business of combat awaited.

He settled into the ReO position and secured himself and his helmet into place. The HUD jumped to life in his field of vision, transparent amber on the inside of his face-plate, displaying everything he needed to know to operate the craft's weapons systems. The relevant controls arrayed around him, lit up in green, pale blue, and the occasional amber. All familiar from hundreds of hours in the simulators.

He listened to Elsha go through the pre-launch startup, herself only visible as the back of a helmet dome in front of him. He monitored the power relayed to weapons as those systems came up. No fluctuations beyond standard parameters. So far, so good.

“Are you comfortable back there?” she asked after a time.

“More or less,” he replied. In truth, he had barely enough room to do his job. He briefly considered foregoing the harnessing. There was no way he was going anywhere. Getting out afterward was going to be its own challenge. But regulations were regulations and if they had to eject, Murphy's Law would find some way to use physics to dislodge him in some unforeseen direction.

“What does that mean?”

“I'm ready. Weapons systems check. We are a go. Let's do it,” he said in English.

He heard her grunt assent. Moments later, the craft lurched slightly as it lifted off the deck and rotated toward the outer doors. He'd been warned about certain shortcomings of the simulators, that there were just some things they couldn't duplicate. The sensation of motion was one of them, and that was something every aspiring pilot simply had to experience doing the real thing.

He heard the muffled pressurization klaxons as Elsha eased into an expansive airlock.

A minute later, they drifted out into space. Roy never been so glad of mandatory microgravity training. He'd heard stories about it from NASA astronauts, but even the simulations had barely prepared him for the real thing.

He clenched his stomach against the effects.

“How are you doing?” Elsha asked.

“Been better.” After a moment, the initial wave passed.

“Did you forget to belch?”

“I'm still having trouble doing that on demand.” It was probably a physiology thing. A moment later, he belched. “Better, thanks.” Of course, if there was going to be a problem with space-sickness, now was going to be the time to do something about it.

Elsha brought the bomber about, sliding into formation. Roy took a moment to look out at the star-field. Even through his HUD's visual overlay, the swath of stars undiluted by atmosphere took his breath away. He heard the call-outs over his helmet audio. Then, “Blue Seven, standing by,” said Elsha.

Roy's HUD displayed the locations and status of every craft in the area, including the enemy. He toggled the primary target. Its corresponding blip brightened, and an image of it appeared at the base, along with the distance to it, and several other pertinent details concerning things like hull integrity, shield strength, and weapons emplacements.

“Blue Wing, this is Blue Leader. Hold position.”

Roy turned to watch Lopt-hyarta continue to rotate on the other side of two wingmates, the large crystalline towers glowing like millions of fluorescent tubes.

“Command to all craft, stand clear.”

Roy turned away. He'd once looked directly at a simulated blast and even that had left him seeing spots for three days. Instead, he watched the discharge displayed by his HUD.

“Fire in the hole!” came the warning.

The beam, visible as a column of rapidly-flickering rainbow light, lanced out across space, hitting the Yotun dead-center. Its shield flashed briefly, absorbing some of the energy. The rest of the beam bored into the ship. Roy noted the damage. In terms of affected volume, it really didn't look that bad in the HUD display. A deep hole, maybe a fifth of the vessel's width in diameter and of indeterminate depth, had been bored into the leading face of the cube.

Main weapon...destroyed. Main hangar...destroyed. FTL drive...down. Shield capacity...down by half, especially in that quadrant where the emitters had been destroyed. Not bad for the one and only opening-salvo discharge. The rest was up to Blue and Green Wings.

“Blue Leader to Blue Wing, break and attack!”

Roy perceived their movement only in terms of a little bit of acceleration pressure, and a sudden decrease in the distance to the target. The acceleration effect let up quickly. After that, he was left with a long period of boredom while covering the next thirty thousand klicks.

“Heads up, people,” said Blue Leader of the comm. “Enemy fighters at ten thousand kliki and closing. Show them what we can do!”

Roy noted the rapidly-increasing number of red-encoded dots on his HUD and the red-shaded cube beginning to loom in the blackness, otherwise visible only as a roughly rectangular void in the star-field. He toggled their defensive weaponry. A faint hum flowed through the craft as a score of rail-gun turrets deployed and powered up.

He watched the green blips of his escort arrange themselves about him. He dragged in several deep breaths, the tension going out of him little by little with each one.

“Roi?”

“I'm okay,” he said in English. “It's just...I kind of feel like the President surrounded by Secret Service agents.”

“I have no idea what any of that means.”

“Um...the Emperor surrounded by a security detail?”

“Ah.” A pause. “And the hundreds of enemy fighters trying to kill us?”

“Gee, thanks, Elsha. I really needed that.”

“What would you do if we knew nothing of sarcasm?”

Roy chuckled. “Probably be arrested.”

“First contacts in five kliki,” she said.

Roy powered up the half-score particle-beam cannons, the muffled hum of charging capacitors running counterpart with the background murmur of the craft's other systems.

“Blue Wing, this is Blue Leader. Accelerate to attack speed!”

“Rule number one...” said Roy.

“...get in the first shot,” Elsha finished.

Beam weapons, faintly visible to the eye against the black of space, but enhanced virtually on his HUD, lanced out toward the Virini fighters from scores of Esirin craft. Sparks flared briefly against the star-field and red flecks vanished in the HUD. The good news, fewer enemy. The bad news, the part that never made it into the movies, was the debris.

Oh, the Bifrost beam melted or vaporized most of the material within the affected damage zone. True, an exploding fighter generally broke up into a cloud of many small pieces. But not always. Just like any other explosion he'd seen, the result was an expanding cloud of rapidly-moving shards of metal, some of them quite large. And a single Harbinger bomb only made it worse. That debris, as much as “getting in the first shot,” was what made it imperative for a bomber to get in, deliver its payload, and get clear. Also for that reason, the opening half-hour of any space battle was always the most intense. After that, the whole thing tended to disintegrate to a slow grind.

Elsha pushed the throttle up, the acceleration pushing Roy back a little. The distance to the Yotun closed even faster. He glanced at the velocity readings, one as measured relative to Lopt-hyarta, the other to the target, and blinked. He quickly did the mental conversion...320 meters per second and 490 mps respectively. He let out a low whistle.

“Roi?”

“We're moving in excess of seven hundred miles per hour,” he said. “I've never gone this fast.”

“Exhilarating, isn't it?” Elsha gushed.

Roy chuckled. “Elsha, you're something else, you know that?”

After a pregnant pause, she said in Esirin, “You have some of the most peculiar idioms.” Her tone changed. “We are nearly within range.”

“Arming Harbinger,” said Roy, tapping a button. He watched the tentacle-like projections on the bow splay apart. “Shield disruptors online...now.” He tapped another button.

Also unlike in movies and TV, which tended to treat shields as some sort of field encompassing an entire spacecraft, Virinin vessels had multiple emitters. Which meant that a shield could be at full strength over one part of a ship, and completely absent in another. Shield integrity displayed in a pilot's HUD was always expressed in terms of overall emitter output, as well as the strength of shielding over each area of the target. That dictated the dynamic tactics of any strike force.

HUD-displayed beams lanced out from the tentacles, striking the shield. It flickered green at the impact point, then contorted. He tapped another button. “Bombs away!” he called.

A Harbinger bomb shot out from between the tentacles, a blur at over fifty meters per second. It passed through the shield and disappeared into the hole bored by _Lopt-hyarta_.

Hull integrity had also been mis-handled by Hollywood. He remembered episodes of “Star Trek” in which a ship would be just fine, so long as its hull integrity remained above one percent. It didn't work like that. A ship could have a very large hole in it, and still function just fine. That happened more often than not. Disabling a ship had far more to do with internal damage and crew injury.

Elsha pitched the bomber upward and hit the accelerator. Roy braced himself and grimaced as the force pushed him into his seat. She let out a whoop.

Roy toggled the infrared overlay on his HUD. Bright white flared up deep within the bore-hole. Moments later, several bright plasma plumes briefly erupted from seemingly-random spots on the cube's hull. “ _YES!_ ”

Green blobs shot out from several Virinin fighters. Elsha yanked their craft into a tight spiral, evading most of the enemy shots. Two glanced across the outer hull, and one took out a rail-gun.

Roy blinked. “Elsha, did the ship just scream?”

“Uh, ya,” she said, half-irritably. “I told you, he is alive.”

Roy cursed under his breath. His fingers danced across the controls, targeting the nearest enemy, and fired.

Multiple thuds rippled through the ship in response to subtle recoil from the rail-guns. The plasma bolts, visible to the naked eye as bright blue streaks, gave up half their energy passing through Virinin shields before rending into hull plating. Violet-blue article beams punched right through shields with minimal energy loss and bored into the hulls.

Disabled Virinin craft changed from red to grey on IFF coding, or blinked out altogether if outright destroyed. Fragments bounced off the bomber as Elsha plowed through a cloud of debris.

To starboard, Roy half-watched an Esirin fighter flip around and pound a Virinin ship in pursuit.

The battle continued to unravel into an ever-expanding cloud of debris, punctuated by bursts of weapons fire and brief explosions. He and Elsha delivered one more Harbinger before they found their way blocked by too much wreckage.

By then, the damage had been done.

“All craft, disengage,” came the order from Command.

“Order received,” said Blue Leader. “Blue Wing, break contact, fighting retreat!”

“Blue Seven acknowledged,” said Elsha.

Roy continued to fire at pursuing Virini craft, Elsha rotating their bomber to give him a clear shot with a charged turret, his pulse still pounding.

He kept an eye on the IR overlay. Multiple sections of the Yotun were on fire somewhere inside, flaring up or going out as something else caught, or exploded, or then went out from oxygen depletion. The temperature of the reactor core fluctuated wildly, trending steadily hotter.

“Elsha,” he said at last, “maybe we should make some tracks.”

“Make tracks?”

“That thing's going to blow. What did you say the effective blast radius is?”

“Ten kliki, maybe twelve.”

“We're at nine.”

She swung the bow around and hit the accelerator. The engine wash tore into several Virini craft in pursuit, ripping them apart. Elsha pinwheeled around a large, slowly-rotating slab of Virinin hull plating twice the size of their bomber, then rolled again to avoid a flayed Morfin carcass. A second shard of unidentified Virinin machinery raked their ventral size. They plowed through a small cloud of mostly small debris averaging the size of Roy's torso, narrowly missing a still-arcing Virinin fighter power plant. Then they were clear and Elsha again hit the accelerator.

Roy grinned. He now understood the appeal of military aviation. It was almost as good as sex!

* * *

Roy could practically see Elsha vibrating, even before they'd cleared the internal bay doors. Their craft settled onto the deck and they went through the post-flight routine. The poor bomber was going to need an awful lot of Neosporin, or whatever it was that the vet-techs used on organic hull burns.

Still, they'd survived their first battle. They'd only lost two-thirds of their weaponry, one of their thrust nozzles, and sustained seven hull breaches. And they'd accomplished their objective, even if they'd had to take cover in Lopt-hyarta's blast umbra prior to final docking. Not bad for a couple of complete rookies.

Furthermore, only seven Esirin ships had been lost, which was far more than he could say for any Earth air battle that he could recall. All in all, they'd kicked some serious ass!

They stepped onto the deck. Roy pulled off his helmet and smiled at Elsha. She beamed back at him. Then she squealed, grabbed him by the collar of his flight suit, pulled him down, shoved him back against the bomber's abused hull, and kissed him firmly on the mouth.

For a moment, he stiffened. Then he leaned into her kiss. He slid an arm around her waist, and pulled her toward him.

“Ithunasdottir! Marthason!”

Roy and Elsha broke the kiss, their moment of revelry all but shattered.

“Ya, Fru?” they said.

“What was that?” demanded Kapetein Lornisdottir.

“It…” Elsha all but stammered, “...was a...kiss.”

“Explain, Pilot!”

“It is...an expression of...on Midgard...I forgot myself, Fru.”

Lornisdottir's eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me that was a Midgardrin public display of affection?”

“Ya, Fru.”

The Kaptein’s eyes narrowed. “Fifteen burpii for public display of affection while on duty!” she barked.

“Fru, ya, Fru!” they said.

Roy and Elsha set their helmets on the deck and immediately began doing burpees. “In...dai...tri...pedwar...pimp….”

* * *

Elsha flopped down onto a large beanbag chair and sighed loudly. “That was incredible!” she cooed.

“The flying, or the kissing?”

She grinned at him. “Both!” she gushed.

Roy leaned against the wall and smiled back. “I agree,” he said.

“I am still a little baffled by your statement about my flight suit.”

“It looks better on you.”

She regarded him for several moments. “I suppose I shall take that as a compliment.”

He nodded. “In fact, you always look good in leather.”

“But I always wear leather,” she protested.

He knelt down beside her and gazed into her deep sea-blue-green, amber-flecked eyes. “I know.”

She cocked her head slightly, and blinked pensively. “You are strange, Roi Marthason. Wonderful. But strange.”

He leaned over and kissed her. She kissed him back. Before he knew it, they’d become thoroughly engaged in a kutsh—the Esirin word for an extreme cuddling.

They didn’t notice the door open. “I knew it!”

Roy and Elsha both looked up sharply.

“Oh,” said Elsha, “hello, Mala.”

Elsha's niece stood there beside the main table, hands on her hips, looking down at them. “How much validity do your protests have now, hmm?”

Elsha exhaled. “Mala, it is complicated.”

“Clearly not too complicated for a good kutsh. And I heard about what happened on Blue Deck a little while ago.” She smirked. “Now, unhand my aunt before my grandparents find out.”

 _Terrific_ , Roy thought, _I'm being dressed down by a fourteen-year-old_. He groaned softly, then reluctantly disentangled himself from Elsha. Things had certainly become complicated indeed.

* * *

Roy stood on Bragi’s balcony, looking out at the nearly changeless square of the city-ship of Lopt-hyarta as he had done more times than he’d bothered to count over the past year.

“You seem tense.”

Roy spared a glance at Bragi before turning his attention back to the menagerie below.

“A little,” Roy admitted. “Nei, a lot.”

“Why?”

Roy turned his attention again to Bragi. “We will be in orbit around Asgard in little more than a week’s time,” he said in Esirin. “Then...” He squeezed his eyes shut, then let them open again. “Elsha applied to the Academy.”

“I know. She has been, as you say, working her butt off toward it. So have you.”

Roy exhaled heavily. “I almost do not care if they admit me. It will not be the same without her.”

“Ya, my daughter has grown quite fond of you.”

Roy couldn’t help but smile.

“And you of her,” Bragi added. “I notice. I see the way your faces light up when you lay eyes on one another. Her mother has noticed it, too. You two work well together. And you are nearly inseparable.”

“None of that will matter if...when...” He couldn’t bring himself to say the rest. But he could see it in Bragi’s face.

“There are certain political realities.”

“You mean with Hertog Arnrod?”

“Mm. It is difficult to put into words how...vehemently...Elsha wants to not marry him. Her mother and I...well, it turns our stomachs, too.”

“Then why...”

“Politics. An alliance with that house...” He chuckled ruefully. “Surely you have heard enough talk on the subject?”

“Enough to understand how...vile...a person he his.”

“We have been discussing the matter for a long time. Ithuna and I, my parents, and the Hertog. Ithuna and I, our duty to our house and family is clear. We must weigh that against our love for our daughter and desire for her happiness.”

“If even half the things I have heard about this Arnrod are true, marrying Elsha to him will kill her, if not in body then in soul. You cannot seriously consider this! It is the worst idea I have ever heard!”

Bragi sighed. “In our hearts, we agree.”

“Then...”

“At this point,” Bragi interrupted, “the only thing that can stop it is for her to betroth to another. I know of only one other person who is even remotely suitable.” He looked directly at Roy.

Roy exhaled heavily. “I would have to talk to Elsha about that.”

Bragi chuckled. “It was her idea.”

“It was?”

Bragi nodded. “And it is a good idea, all things considered. It would be a strictly domestic arrangement, of course.”

Roy chuckled nervously. “That...could be complicated.”

“You speak of the oath-bond you made with Roni.”

Roy raised an eyebrow. “Did Elsha tell you about that?”

“She told me everything. What is that expression you have...spilled her guts.”

“Really? She is that open with you?”

“You sound surprised.”

“Ya, well, fathers and daughters are not known for that on Midgard. Maybe in some places, but not in America.”

“That is unfortunate. But the matter of your marriage to Roni and your oath-bond with her. You were to be declared deceased, the appropriate funeral rites observed, and the associated laws carried out. Legally, you are no longer married to Roni. Do I understand correctly?”

Roy nodded. “In a nutshell. I still promised to forsake all others until death do us part. And, well, I am not exactly dead.”

“And yet, you yourself pushed them away.”

Roy sighed again, then reverted to English. “After I went nuts. Which happened after your people showed up and planted Devil’s Tower in my head.” After a few moments. “Ah, but who am I kidding? Our marriage was in trouble already. Ronnie said something about family therapy, but when I think about it, we were probably both in denial. If I hadn’t left, hadn’t come here, she probably would have divorced me in another year or two anyway.”

“You still feel that marrying my daughter violates your oath, an oath that you have all but admitted to having already broken some time ago.”

Roy grunted as though punched in the stomach. “Don’t think that hasn’t crossed my mind. I told myself that if I had to do it over again, I’d do it all differently.”

“You have an opportunity to do just that. And in my estimation, you have already been doing it, ya?”

Roy exhaled. “I love her, Bragi. I love Elsha. But I don’t know if I’m good for her.”

“What was that joke you tried to tell us a while ago...God help me be the man my dog thinks I am. I am sure it lost something in translation, but I think the basic meaning applies. When you came to us, Elsha was...a difficult young female, might be the most diplomatic way to put it. I am afraid Ithuna and I are partly to blame for that.”

Roy chuckled. “She’s still difficult.”

“So she is. But in a much different way. You drew her out, helped her...what is your metaphor...blossom. I think you have already become the person she thinks you are. She would choose you, Roi. Would you choose her in return?

“Ithuna will announce our decision at this evening’s meal. You have until then to make up your mind. Choose wisely, Roi Marthason.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The numbers Roy counts off are the Welsh numbers standing in for Esirin.
> 
> 'Kutsh' is taken from the Welsh word 'cwtch,' which is generally understood to be an extreme cuddling.


	4. Chapter 4

Afternoon light played over the most beautiful valley Roy had ever seen. Autumnal foliage, in familiar shades of yellow, orange, red, and purple, shimmered in gentle breeze. A spray of purple needles fluttered down from a conifer, coming to rest on the broad stone walk before him.

Above the trees, Yosimte Creek poured over a precipice, its rushing blending into the other sounds, before flowing into the Roros River nearby.

He’d had a little time to admire the scenery since arriving at Sesrum. There hadn't been much else for him to do, and the gods knew he hadn’t seen much of Elsha lately. It had been a whole week! A week, and he was starting to get bored.

That irony was not lost on him. He’d traveled across the Orion Spur on an alien spacecraft full of aliens and their technology, had flown in one of their combat craft against another alien race, had landed on their homeworld full of its wonders and ancient splendor, was about to marry one of them, and he was bored.

His best guess was that he’d grown so accustomed to having Elsha around, to doing so much with her at his side, that he felt a little lost without her. Never mind that their wedding ceremony was about to begin.

That, and he'd spent a considerable amount of time making Elsha's wedding pendant. Thor Yarthson had been good enough to lend the use of his forge, something Roy might not have expected of the Emperor's eldest son.

Tentative recollection from high school metalwork class had given him just enough to get started. The rest had come from Thor's near-constant heckling. He'd begun with a small bar of nakwida, folding and pounding it over and over and over, heating it in a plasma flame between rounds. Then had come hours of filing and polishing.

Drawing the vibranium wire for the pendant's cording had been unbelievably difficult as well, and weaving it, unbearably tedious. He'd been forced to stop multiple times just to keep his hands from cramping. But the result had been worth it. By the eve of the wedding, he'd held in his hand a beautiful Myalnar pendant with an iridescent wood-grain pattern suspended from a single-strand woven wire cord.

He cast another glance across the flagstones, only half ignoring the throngs of guests and the inevitable spectators who’d come from far and wide to witness the first wedding between an Esirna—the granddaughter of Emperor Othen, no less—and a Midgardren.

He took another deep breath. He was beginning to second-guess his earlier estimation that being alone might be an asset. He knew from experience that the larger a group of people, the longer it took to get the proverbial show on the road. Since he was just him, he’d been dressed and ready for what felt like an hour.

He resisted the urge to look down, instead satisfying himself with the dozens of times he’d examined himself in the mirror. It had been a long time since he’d cared much about his appearance, another irony that was not lost on him. He’d told himself that he wanted to make a good impression on those people of Asgard who’d never seen a Midgarder before. He’d also told himself that they cared a great deal about a groom having everything in place. The reality was that his appearance, and the care he took with it, especially on their wedding day, reflected upon Elsha. She’d chosen him, and he’d be damned if he was going to give her any cause to regret that, today of all days.

So he satisfied himself with his recollection. For starters, he couldn’t remember ever having worn quite so much green in his life. Somehow, being clad head to toe in cammo didn’t quite hold a candle to traditional Esirin wedding attire. Every time he really thought about it, he felt like a damned leprechaun.

So he tried not to think about it. Naturally that made him think about it all the more. Green was supposed to symbolize life. And he supposed it did. New life for a new couple, or something like that. He’d tried to pay attention to that, too. But really what he was trying to do was not screw up his part of the ceremony.

To that end, Elsha had brought him along to a wedding shortly after they’d landed a week ago. She’d told him to pay attention to everything. There would be no one to coach or remind him of anything at their wedding, no one to pick up any slack, or hand him the proverbial ring, or any of that. He would be expected to say and do everything that he was expected to say and do, and without hesitation. Heh, no pressure.

And so he stood there, utterly alone. According to tradition, the bride and groom each brought something to the marriage. The Esiri regarded a wedding as the merging of two families at least as much as the joining of two people. That bit about “I’m marrying you, not your family” he’d so often heard back home would not fly here on Asgard.

Supposedly, Roy brought links to Midgard, and a collection of other related intangibles. And it was probably true. At least, the nobility needed to be made to see it that way, apparently. But the truth, as he saw it, was that he didn’t have squat. Especially compared to what Elsha brought, which was the whole Imperial household and its resources. Never, in the history of their respective worlds, had there ever been such a woefully unbalanced couple.

Okay, maybe one of King Solomon’s wives. Even that was stretching it. Solomon had only been king of a very small sliver of the Middle East. Othen was Emperor over several star systems and then some.

What the hell was he doing? Roy felt the sudden urge to run. Which would have been the worst idea in the long, long history of bad ideas. They’d hunt him down, if he made it off the grounds at all, and probably dismember him, throw him into a dungeon, or something else that would very shortly render him dead. Worse, it would break Elsha’s heart.

He seemed to remember having had cold feet at his wedding to Ronnie. Then, too, he’d been fine most of the morning, until he’d found himself standing at the altar, waiting for the processional to begin.

His courtship with Ronnie had taken the typical American path. They’d met in college, dated for a while, then he’d proposed with all the clammy hands and barely-controlled stuttering that seemed to plague every man in his early twenties when confronted by a beautiful woman.

With Elsha, it had taken a dramatically different route. There’d been no love, or even like, at first sight. Nothing he’d have recognized as a date. He couldn't identify when they'd fallen in love. He hadn’t even actually proposed. It had all just more or less happened to him and he'd been along for ride.

That evening two weeks before would forever be etched in his memory. The whole family had been at the hall table for the evening meal, as usual. He’d been sitting beside Elsha, as usual. But the overall mood had been strained, and not just because of the impending life upset upon arrival at Asgard. Elsha herself had been downright frigid, a disturbingly frequent condition as of late.

When Ithuna had stood up and made the anticipated announcement, the ensuing silence had been so thick, Roy could have heard the trees down in the park sucking water through their trunks.

All eyes had moved to Elsha and Roy had watched her expression make more changes over the space of several seconds than he’d thought possible. Then finally, she’d lit up like a sun, and squealed so loudly, Roy’s ears had rung for two days, the ear closest to Elsha an additional day. But he’d been fine with that. In fact, he’d have considered a ruptured ear drum to have been worth it.

The upshot was that Elsha had spent much of the rest of that week perpetually grinning from ear to ear, sighing contentedly at random, and occasionally floating off the floor. She’d spent the past week in that state, too, or at least the few times he’d seen her.

A murmur at the far end of the walk yanked him back to the present. That could only mean one thing. Moments later, a large knot of people made their way into view. Roy gulped.

He’d been told exactly who was to be accompanying Elsha. Her immediate family—which meant everyone he’d been living with aboard Lopt-hyarta, all twenty of them—as well as grandparents, aunts and uncles, and several close cousins. In addition to the family, a collection of guards and retainers, some of whom usually hovered about the rest of the time, trailed around the edges. There, in the center, was his Elsha.

Roy couldn’t help but smile, and something about the way she held herself told him that she was smiling, too. Strictly speaking, smiling at a wedding was discouraged. Something about the ceremony being more of a business arrangement.

“Business arrangement, my leather-clad butt,” he muttered under his breath.

That was, Roy mused, accurate. Most of his outfit was green leather. While the green was as traditional among the Esiri as white was among Americans, the leather was all Elsha’s idea.

While his shirt was something like linen, his vest-like over-garment, trousers, and boots were all leather, and all of it complementary shades of green. He hadn’t even known what he was going to be wearing until one of the staff had brought it to him that morning after someone else had taken his measurements earlier in the week. When he’d asked Elsha about her attire, she’d only smiled coyly. Even at that distance, Roy was beginning to see why.

Music began to play, a slow, somber almost-tune with a driving beat. It was the same thing he’d heard at the wedding he and Elsha had attended the week before. He’d found the song intriguing, and strangely haunting, but far from joyful as a wedding should be, in his estimation.

Wait for it...wait for it...now. On the third round of drums, vocals began, his cue to begin the slow walk toward the other wedding party. One step...two…three...and so on.

Each step brought him closer, the drums mirroring the hammering of his heart. That corner of his mind still urged him to run. He ignored it. He wanted this. As much as he’d ever wanted anything, he wanted this. And the approaching, smiling face of Elsha told him she wanted it just as much.

Even by the time they’d each covered a quarter of the distance between them, he could make out certain details, and as they drew closer still, he had to force his jaw stay put.

Her dress began under her armpits, dropped straight to her waist, and then flared out, hemmed at her shins, in what looked like a single piece of green leather, fastened probably in the back. Deep green leather flat round-toed shoes peeked out. Green leather fingerless gauntlet gloves sheathed her arms to just past her elbows. The shade of green complemented the deep sea green elements of her eyes and the forest green and teal mottling on her skin. How she kept the dress up with no bust, he had no idea, although from the way the skirts waved lazily, he suspected she’d manipulated the gravity.

“You look magnificent,” he said quietly when they finally stood two paces apart.

“So do you,” she said softly.

Strictly speaking, the bride and groom were only supposed to speak the proscribed words to each other during the ceremony. It was tradition.

A tradition, Roy suspected, initially arose after one too many couples had exchanged less-than-complementary verbiage with each other. Given the high percentage of arranged marriages among the Esiri regardless of birth or station, that sort of thing had occurred with alarming frequency. The way Elsha, Ithuna, and Bragi had talked about it, it had often made the infamous Hatfield and McCoy feud look like a Sunday picnic.

Which was, perhaps, the only advantage Roy had. No family, no baggage. No baggage, no nasty confrontations with the in-laws. It also helped that he and his bride were in love with each other.

Elsha passed the large glass flower she held to her father, then joined hands with Roy. They felt slightly warmer than usual. The brown spots on her skin looked more red, too. He realized she was blushing, though the smile never faded from her lips, nor the sparkle from her eyes.

He wrenched some of his attention from his bride to the ceremony. He’d rehearsed it in his mind over and over.

Which was good, because unlike most other kinds of events, visual records for weddings were frustratingly scarce. He’d railed about it to his soon-to-be in-laws, all of whom had just looked at him the way a deer looks at an oncoming car. There were visual records for the damn Three Seashells, for crying out loud!

So he’d insisted that someone, preferably multiple someones, make at least one visual record of his and Elsha’s wedding. After all, it was the first time in history an Esira had married a Midgardran. And it had to have been the most lopsided wedding party in generations. And there was what he had in mind for a little later.

The ceremony proceeded exactly as it should, beginning with the two of them swearing certain oaths to each other. When he pulled the pendant from his pocket, Elsha gasped.

“Oh, Roi, that is beautiful!”

He winked and slipped it over her head. As he'd hoped, it hung just above where her cleavage would be, if she'd had any.

She produced his, pulling it from inside one of her gloves. She'd fashioned it from a warm, coppery metal with subtle green-ish undertones in the wood-grain fold pattern. Orikalkum, probably, suspended from a bright silvery mithril chain.

That was it, the final element cementing them as husband and wife in accordance with Esirin law and custom.

The party retired to an expansive awning of sage-green silk-like fabric strung taut between several trees. Tables had been set up on the flagstone. Musicians played through one tune, and then other. Roy paused, tapping a finger pensively on a table in time to the music.

“Roi?” Elsha whispered.

Roy looked at her and smiled. “I have an idea,” he said, hoping it sounded like he’d come up with it on the spot.

Elsha cocked her head as he stood up and trotted over to the musicians, ignoring various inquisitive noises from everyone, including the Emperor.

“Excuse me,” he said to the leader, “do you know ‘Throw Off the Bowlines?’”

The leader nodded. “Of course. Why?”

Roy inclined his head expectantly.

“You cannot be serious. At a wedding?”

Roy just grinned.

The leader exhaled. “His Imperial Majesty will...”

“I assume all blame.”

Another nod, then brief instructions to the musicians. Moments later, they began to play.

Roy made his way back to his place.

“Roi?” said Elsha. “Is that ‘Throw Off the Bowlines?’”

“It is,” he said.

“Why?” she asked.

It was a good question. It was certainly not a wedding song. It wouldn’t even have been a wedding song in America, except possibly for the Irish. No, it was more of a sea shanty, leftover from the days before the Esiri had ventured into space, when they had plied the seas and the skies above them in great airships, during their own Age of Steam. They still did those things, but more as pastimes the way Americans took sailboats out for a weekend.

Roy extended a hand. Elsha looked at it for a couple of moments before tentatively placing her own into it. Roy tugged her to her feet, then led her around the tables toward the empty flagstone space, again ignoring the inquisitions.

He turned to face a still-puzzled Elsha. He placed one hand on her waist, and held her other in a classic dance pose.

Her eyes widened. “Roi? What are you doing?”

His smile broadened. “Do you trust me?”

She nodded.

“Hand on my shoulder,” he said. She did. “Now, follow my lead, and move your feet to the beat of your heart.”

“What does that…?”

Roy began moving before she’d finished her question. Slowly at first, in something resembling a waltz. Not that anyone in attendance knew what that was, nor was he particularly good at it.

He remembered the expression, dance like no one’s watching. For him, it was more like, dance like no one cares. Oh, they all cared. They just had no idea what dancing was. Which still baffled him. How could a culture with so much music and poetry not also have dance? At least no one would know if he made a fool of himself.

“What is this?” she asked.

“Dancing,” he said.

The music should speed up right about...now. He began moving his feet a little faster. Unsurprisingly, Elsha kept up just fine. A few measures later, he took another risk. He raised the hand that held hers, loosened his grip just a little, and levered her arm around.

She made an eeping sound as her body swiveled around, then back to face him. She looked up at him, wide-eyed. He did it again. This time she was ready for it and spun on the ball of her foot, grinning from ear to ear, her skirts flaring out briefly.

He tried something from the Jitterbug, thrusting her away from himself, then back again. He was sure whoever invented it would be spinning in their graves about now, but he didn’t care.

She quickly picked up on what he intended, beginning to anticipate the next spin, the next twirl. And as quickly as she’d picked it up, she began taking the initiative. Soon, they were moving about, twirling, spinning, and weaving as one, skirts and tunic flaring and twisting and untwisting. Every now and again, she let out a high-pitched whoop or a squeal.

When the song slowed again, he pulled her toward him again and, as the tune resolved, he tipped her backward. She squeaked again. He leaned down and kissed her tenderly.

“Now it’s official,” he said as they broke the kiss.

She giggled. “’You may now kiss the bride?’” she asked.

He nodded, then tugged her back upright.

She reached up and draped both hands around the back of his neck. “I like that tradition,” she said breathlessly.

“Which one? The dancing, or the kissing?”

“Both.”

He leaned down. “So do I,” he said, then kissed her again.

He pulled back a little, her hands slipping from his shoulders. He took one, stepped back, then bowed over her hand and kissed it.

Halfway back to their seats, Othen rose to his feet.

“Marthason!” he bellowed. “What was _that?!_ ”

“It is called dancing,” he said.

“It has no place at a wedding.”

“Oh, come off it, Grandfather,” said Elsha. “It was fun!”

“I notice,” said Roy, “that you let us finish before protesting.”

“I was...we were...”

“Shocked,” Gunluda finished.

“Why?” asked Roy.

“Because...because...because...”

“Where I come from,” he interrupted, “a wedding is a joyous occasion. A thing to be celebrated.” He sidled up next to Elsha and slid an arm around her waist. She reciprocated.

“Roi and I are happy,” said Elsha. “Can you not see that? Will you not share in our joy?” She looked around, then back at Roy. “We should do that again.” She looked back at her grandfather. “We should all do that again!”

“What?!”

She made a beckoning motion. “Come, come! Join us!”

“But...”

“You do not know how? Look at me! I have no idea what I am doing either! Roi told me to move my feet to the beat of my heart! I follow his lead, but also make it up as we go along.”

Elsha glided over to the musicians, exchanged a few words, then glided back. “We are all familiar with ‘Grand Flying Machines,’ ya?”

Murmurs of assent blended with the opening notes of the song. It was a popular one, apparently, and well-liked and often-played among Esha’s, and now his, family.

“Next,” she continued, “will be 'A Tale of Sea Dragons,' and 'Wings.'”

He and Elsha led the dancing. Bragi and Ithuna were first out on the floor, followed by Elsha’s brothers and their wives. At length, Othen and Gunluda joined, though awkwardly.

“I love you, Elsha,” he told her.

“I love you as well, Roi,” she responded.

* * *

“ _There_ you are!”

Roy cocked an eyebrow at Mala.

“Some of us were beginning to think you two were never going to come out of there.”

Roy and Elsha looked at each other. Roy shrugged.

Mala made a pft sound and rolled her eyes.

“What?” said Elsha.

Mala peered at her aunt, then at Roy, then smiled. “Whatever all that was, it sounded like a lot of fun,” she said at length.

Roy slid a hand around Elsha's waist, pulled her to him, and grinned. She giggled. Then, “Good morning to you, too, Mala.”

Mala's gaze shifted to something off to the left. “Mother,” she said, “you had better negotiate with someone who will love me.”

“Do you have someone in mind?” Ithuna teased, ignoring her granddaughter's hrmph.

“Oh, good morning!” said Elsha.

Ithuna chuckled. “Good morning yourselves. I trust you enjoyed yourselves last night?”

Understatement of the decade, Roy thought. He felt himself blush.

Ithuna tapped the top of a box sitting on a small wooden table.

“Oh, dear,” said Elsha.

“What’s that?” Roy asked. “Besides the obvious,” he added.

“It is...it is...” Elsha exhaled heavily. “It is our...scoring?”

“Scoring? For what?”

“May I go make myself scarce now?” Mala demanded.

“Nei,” said Ithuna, “but you may go make yourself useful.”

Mala nodded curtly, then trotted off on some other errand. Teenagers, he thought.

Elsha smiled weakly. “It is a tradition we have. On a couple’s wedding night, every visitor may, if they choose, score our performance based on what they hear.”

Roy blinked. “You’re kidding.”

Elsha shook her head.

“You didn’t tell me about this.”

“I was...embarrassed. And I thought you would feel pressured. And distracted.”

“What, so I’d act natural?”

Elsha grimaced. “Something like that.”

“Huh,” he said pensively. “I’ve heard of this sort of thing on Earth...Midgard...but mainly as an occasional joke.”

“Oh, we take it very seriously,” said Ithuna.

“You are full of contradictions, aren’t you?”

“I suppose so. Who wants to go first?”

Roy and Elsha looked at each other. She exhaled, then opened the lid and pulled out a slip of paper.

“Another contradiction?” said Roy.

Elsha made an inquisitive noise.

“You have all this technology, and you still use paper?”

“For some things, ya.” She returned her attention to the folded scrap of buff paper. After a couple of moments, she abruptly opened it and blinked. “Ten!” she exclaimed.

“Oh, good!” Ithuna gushed.

“It is?” said Roy.

“The scale goes from zero to ten,” she said.

Roy smiled. He pulled another slip from the box. “Ten,” he said.

“Another one?” said Elsha. She pulled out a third. “This also says ten.”

Ithuna frowned. “That is very unusual. Most couples might receive one ten. Maybe. But three?”

Roy pulled out another. “You said the scale only goes to ten. Someone wrote sixteen.”

Ithuna chortled. “An exaggeration, I am sure.”

“Another ten. And a comment.”

“What?” said Elsha.

“No one leaves comments,” said Ithuna, “ever.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. But someone did. It says, ‘Does he have a brother?’”

Elsha spluttered. “ _What?!_ ”

Roy showed her the paper. Her eyes went wide. He pulled another. “'I do not know what they are doing in there, but thirteen.'”

She pulled out another slip. “Ten,” she said. “And...” She paused to read it over first. “...Hurry up and breed him. My daughter has four winters, but she can wait.’”

Roy pulled another. “Ten. ‘He made you sing? Can he teach my husband how to do that to me?’”

Slip after slip was a ten. And more often than not, there were comments.

“’Did I hear mention of the ceiling? I must immediately go suggest that to my wife.’”

Roy chuckled. “If the guys who wrote the Kama Sutra knew about that one, it would have been in there.”

“The what?” Elsha asked.

Roy explained it.

Her eyes went wide again. “You mean Midgard has an entire book on different positions?”

Roy nodded.

“’In your wedding dress? Really?’”

Ithuna chuckled. “That must have been right after you said...what was it...'take me now, or lose me forever.'”

Roy grinned. Elsha blushed furiously. “I was excited,” she said.

“So was I,” said Roy.

“I know,” Elsha purred. “You practically exploded inside of me. But that second time, when you undressed me, was so tender, and...”

Roy cleared his throat and nodded toward Ithuna.

“What?” said Elsha.

“We, uh, don’t usually talk about sex in front of our mothers.”

Elsha blinked. “You have sex in front of your mothers? Do they watch?”

“Uh...no, I mean, we just don’t discuss it.”

“Hmm. Your people are complicated.”

“’I heard that you need more glassware. No, really, I heard that. Go see Sven. He will give you a good deal.’”

Roy and Elsha both havered for a few moments. “We’ll...clean that up,” said Roy.

Ithuna giggled. “I wish you two would not be so embarrassed. I cannot say about anyone else, but I heard so much joy coming from that room last night. It did my heart good. Allowing you to marry was not the most...how do you put that...politically expedient decision, but it was clearly the right one. You two have found perfect happiness. Most of us must make do with acceptable levels of happiness, and that is if we are fortunate.”

Roy and Elsha smiled at each other. He leaned down toward her and she met him on her own way up with those delicious lips of hers.

“Wait,” said Elsha after a few moments, “were you not charged with supervising the box?”

“Ya,” said Ithuna.

“But I thought you said no one ever writes comments,” said Roy. “Or is that not really a rule?”

“Oh, it is, more or less.”

Roy raised an eyebrow.

Ithuna havered slightly. “At one point...and I think it was when you sang something like...sweet mystery of life at last I have found you...I went to find your father.”

“And?”

Ithuna’s smile broadened.

“Mother!”

“What? I found you to be inspiring. And we tried that kissing thing. We found it to be extremely pleasant.”

“I know!” Elsha gushed. She turned around and kissed Roy. The kiss deepened. Several moments later, they pulled apart, panting.

Roy picked Elsha up. She made a light eeping sound. “Would you excuse us?” he said.

“By all means!” said Ithuna.

“Roi!” Elsha protested. “Put me down!”

“What am I going to do with you?”

“I believe you spent all night doing it,” she retorted.

“Hmm,” he said pensively. “You’re right.”

“Oh, and Mother?” said Elsha over Roy shoulder. “Go find Father.”

“And?”

“The ceiling?”

Ithuna chortled. “That, daughter, is the best idea I have heard all day.”

* * *

Roy stood on the veranda of their borrowed suite, look at the night sky. Unfamiliar animals chirped, whistled, rasped, and croaked in the dark. A trio of large translucent bat-like creatures flapped across the clearing, bioluminescent tissue along their backs diffusing down their flanks

After a short while, he heard Elsha pad up beside him.

“It's a little surreal,” he said.

“Surreal? Explain, please.”

“It's...something that seems both real and not at the same time. As though I'm dreaming all this and I'm going to wake up back in Indiana to find that none of this ever happened. But then I stand here, looking at unfamiliar constellations, smelling strange smells, reminding myself that I am the alien here, or making love to you, and it makes my life on Earth seem like the dream.”

Elsha leaned against him. “I feel the same way,” she said. “When I think about what I thought my life would be like. The way everything changed after you came to us.”

“Are you sure our marriage won't tear the family apart?”

Elsha snorted. “The politics will always be there.”

“That's what Thor told me, too. He said that if not Hertog Arnrod, then someone else.”

“Mm. And Father said that my misery would tear the family apart. This is better for us all.”

“I agree.” He put an arm around her shoulder. “Are you cold?”

“A little. Perhaps we should go back inside and warm up a little?”

* * *

“Out a little earlier, I see,” Ithuna teased. She held out a pair of envelopes. “These arrived a little while ago.”

Roy shook his head slowly. “More snail-mail.”

“These are...from Valhala,” said Elsha. “I...cannot.”

Roy sighed. Sometimes, his wife showed no fear of anything. Other times? Were women a contradiction everywhere in the galaxy?

Roy cut open his own envelope and pulled out the paper inside, unfolding a sheet a little longer than the standard letter he was used to back home. He read it over quickly, then twice, and a third time. He let out the breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding.

“I'm in,” he said, blinking. “Provisionally. They want to interview me prior to Basic.”

“Oh, that is wonderful!” said Ithuna. “Elsha?”

Elsha closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then opened her own and read it. Her jaw dropped. The paper slipped out of her fingers and fluttered to the floor.

“Elsha?” said Roy.

Elsha tried to say something, her mouth working wordlessly.

He placed his hands on her shoulders. “It’s okay, honey. Just breathe.”

“Roy?” said Ithuna.

“It's a misunderstanding.”

“Roy.”

“We can talk to someone.”

“Roy!”

“What?”

Ithuna stood beside him, Elsha’s letter in her hand. “This is...is...” She thrust it at him.

He took it and flipped it around, eyes scanning the page. His mouth stretched into a grin. He let out a whoop and flung his arms around Elsha. “I knew you could do it!”

He hugged her tightly for a few moments before holding her out at arm’s length. “Honey?”

“There must be some mistake,” she said. “That is a...a...”

“A perfect score!”

“But it cannot be.”

“Why not?”

“Because the last person who did so was my grandfather, Othen Bestlason, one thousand, five hundred, and sixty-seven years ago.”

“I think,” said Roy, “that you just demonstrated why it _can_ be.” He took her face between his palms. “You are wonderful, intelligent, capable, and all your hard work paid off.”

She smiled. “I could not have done it without you.”

“Which demonstrates,” said Ithuna, “why you two make such a good team, and why Bragi and I were right to allow you to marry.”

“Did we thank you for that?” Roy asked.

Ithuna chuckled. “Several times.”

“Thank you again,” said Elsha. She turned back to Roy. “Now, officially, I need spousal permission.”

“Of course you have my permission, you silly woman!” he teased, then kissed her.

“And you, of course, have mine, you silly man.”

“And you two are unutterably adorable,” said Ithuna.

* * *

Roy stood out on the balcony behind the room lent to him and his new wife. Purple conifer needles crunched under his feet. Mist rose off the River Roros, just visible between grey tree trunks. Dawn light lit up spire of Mt. Karathras, permanantly ice-crusted. Bird-like creatures chittered, and something that looked remarkably like a rhamphorynchus glided across the meadow.

He heard a door open behind him, then a pair of feet crunching on the needles. He looked down into those large, shining eyes with their blue-green irises and smiled.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he said.

“Good morning yourself,” she replied.

He bent down and kissed her.

“Aha!” he teased. “You’re not wearing leather.” He smirked.

Elsha smiled back, then wiggled a foot, a brown leather slipper catching the light.

Roy chuckled. He slid and arm around her, and she around him. They leaned against each other. Together they watched the morning.

“It is beautiful,” she finally said. “I had forgotten it. Or nearly so.”

Roy grunted assent. Elsha had been a young girl when she’d left Asgard, and her memories of it were, as she’d put it, a little vague.

“Is it at all like you remember?”

“A little. I did not spend much time here at Sesrum.”

“Mostly you were at home. At Rivendel.”

She nodded. “I do wish to share it with you. Maybe after Basic?”

“I look forward to it.” They’d have a couple of weeks off before beginning their studies at the Academy. But until then, they had two months of Basic Training. A _long_ two months, if it was anything at all like what he’d heard about U.S. military boot camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Esirin wedding march sounds something like this:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F-iRv16Ojak
> 
> Throw off the Bowlines:  
> https://soundcloud.com/jamespagetmusic/throw-off-the-bowlines
> 
> Grand Flying Machines:  
> https://eveningstarmusic.bandcamp.com/album/grand-flying-machines
> 
> A Tale of Sea Dragons:  
> https://marcuswarnermusic.bandcamp.com/track/a-tale-of-sea-dragons
> 
> Wings:  
> https://marcuswarnermusic.bandcamp.com/track/wings


	5. Chapter 5

“Syr, a Roi Marthason to see you.”

“Send him in.”

The receptionist motioned toward the door, a solid slab of purple iron-wood with a brass plaque mounted to it reading “General Shegwidenson.”

Roy saluted in the Esirin fist-on-chest convention, then went in.

He closed the door behind him. “Roy Marthason, reporting as ordered, Syr.”

“Good,” said the General, attention still on his slate. “Now...” He looked up and froze. He blinked. “I should have guessed,” he said at length.

“Because ‘Martha’ is not exactly an Esirin name?” He hastily added, “Syr.”

“Among other things.” He tapped his slate. “The sorts of questions you answered incorrectly are not the sort most Esirni would miss. Not after primary school, anyway. That you knew any of it at all is impressive.”

“I learned it while helping Elsha Ithunasdottir study, Syr.”

“Oh?” he said, cocking an eyebrow.

“I asked her questions, and she answered them. I learned the rest while performing assigned duties.”

“And your life on Midgard?”

“Much of it transported.”

“I see.” He steepled his fingers. “You do understand that your admission is provisional.”

“I do, Syr.”

“But do you understand what that means?”

“It means you will be watching me closely. That I must prove myself during Basic Training.”

“More or less. Your command of our language is impressive, Marthason. How long have you been among us?”

“One year, plus five weeks.”

“Interesting. You learn well.”

“I was motivated, Syr.”

“How so?”

“My purpose here is to learn what is needed to help my people resist the Virini. I must learn that, and return it to my people. Also, I wanted to help Ithunasdottir enter the Academy.”

“Why?”

“Because I love her, Syr.”

“Is that so?”

“It is, Syr.”

“Interesting.” He tapped on his slate, and his other eyebrow went up. “You married her?”

“Ya, Syr. One month ago yesterday.”

The General eyed him. “That is...unusual.”

“Never before has a Midgardrin married an Esirna.”

“Mm. And now you expect me to say this changes everything, ya?”

“Syr, I do not know what to expect. Except that my admission depends upon this interview.”

“So it does.” He smiled. “Sit down, and we will begin.”

* * *

Roy and Elsha stood at parade rest on the central grounds. The only light came from panels mounted on several of the buildings, the only sound from their own breathing.

Roy had re-shaved his head the night before. Each time he’d shaved, it had reminded him of one more reason he’d never before seriously considered the military. He just liked having a warm scalp.

Out of the corner of his eye, he half-expected to see Elsha’s hair in a ponytail. Sometimes she even looked like she had hair tied up into a bun, then had to half-remind himself that she didn’t _have_ hair.

“We’re early,” he muttered.

“I know,” she replied.

Moments later, another person walked onto the grounds and took their place. Then another, and another. Many of them move as though they weren't taking the whole thing seriously. Perhaps they weren't. If Esirin basic training was anything like what he knew about American boot camp, he strongly suspected some of them would wash out.

After a short time, an Esirna marched onto the grounds, her posture that unmistakable no-nonsense. She stopped in front of the assemblage and took a deep breath. Roy braced for impact.

“Do you call that a line-up?” she barked. “Give me ten!”

Several people groaned.

“Any backtalk, and it will be fifteen! Now, move!”

Roy, Elsha, and the others began doing burpees. Almost before he knew it, he was done and back at parade rest, finishing a heartbeat behind Elsha. He resisted the urge to pat her on one of her tight buttocks, choosing instead to admire the view out of the corner of his eye.

The others, on the other hand, weren’t doing so well. The few who had finished sounded like dying horses. Most of the others had barely made it past six or seven. A few were pushing themselves past five, while others struggled to get five.

“Do you call that a burpi?” the instructor bellowed. “I am going to whip your sorry behinds into shape if it is the last thing I do!” On and on.

As the sun rose, the last person finished their burpees, and threw up.

The instructor stalked over to Roy and Elsha. “How did you two get those burpii done so fast?” she half-growled.

Roy found it a little hard to take the instructor seriously. In fact, he’d almost had trouble taking the Emperor himself seriously. When everyone was roughly a head shorter and no more than two-thirds his mass, what did one expect?

“Practice, Fru,” they said together.

“Practice, eh? Well,” she raised her voice, “you all are going to be receiving more practice at doing burpii over the next two months. A _lot_ more!”

Roy cringed inwardly. Yup, Esirin boot camp was going to be exactly like American boot camp.

* * *

Roy gazed out at one of the prettiest lakes he'd ever seen. About fifty yards out from a rough sandy shore, an orange buoy bobbed lazily in the morning sun.

His unit stood at parade rest in the sand, all in what he'd been given to understand was swim-wear. Which was roughly like tight swim trunks for both genders. Even after a year, he still found certain anatomical differences briefly disorienting. On this morning, the torsos on display reminded him yet again that if he and Elsha had any children, they were going to need a wet-nurse.

“On my mark,” barked the Sarge, “you will swim to that buoy and back. You may use any stroke. Any questions? Good!”

She blew a whistle, and Roy charged across the sand and plowed into the water. After a half-dozen steps, he thrust his hands forward and executed a surface dive. Moments later, he surfaced and reached out into an instinctive Crawl stroke.

When he touched the buoy and flipped around, he saw he could count on one hand the number of other recruits who were even halfway to the buoy, all but one of which frantically dog-paddled. He struck out, passing the leader not long after.

He rolled into a side-stroke. “You okay?” he asked between breaths.

“Nei,” Elsha gasped, “but I will make it.”

He believed her, and returned to his Crawl. A minute later, he came to the leading edge of the crowd of recruits flailing in the water. He took a deep breath, and dove. After what couldn't have been more than a yard or so, his hands hit sand. He leveled out and pulled, striking out along the bottom and just beneath the dozens of kicking feet.

He surfaced just a few yards from shore, rose up, and pelted out of the water and back to his place, spinning about and back to parade rest, breathing heavily. Another minute later, Elsha staggered out of the water and joined him, her own breath dragging in great gasps.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

“More..or...less,” she stammered.

A couple of minutes later, a few others clambered out of the water and collapsed like beached whales. Sarge shook her head, then blew her whistle. “Stand up, dammit!” she bellowed.

It took the others several more minutes to slog back out and into formation.

“You,” said Sarge to Roy, “where did you learn how to do that?”

“YMCA, Fru!”

“Wai...em...si...eh? What is that?”

“It is complicated, Fru.”

“Then you had better explain it, recruit!”

He did.

Her eyes narrowed. “I see. And you?” she asked Elsha.

“I watched him,” she said breathlessly, nodding at Roy.

“Hmm.”

* * *

Roy held himself rigid in the Plank position, staring at the dirt below him. He listened to the crunching of the Sarge’s boots as she paced back and forth and her voice as she barked taunts.

They’d been at it for a week and this was the first rigorous test day. It involved holding a Plank as long as possible.

“And no altering gravity!” Sarge barked. “If I catch anyone doing so, I will sit down in the shade with a tall glass of mead, and that person will do burpii until I grow hot, tired, and thirsty! Is that understood?”

“Fru, ya, Fru!” everyone replied together.

“Good!”

 _Heh_ , thought Roy, _no problem for me!_ As a human, he couldn’t alter gravity if his soul depended on it.

What felt like two minutes later, a groan and a light thud sounded somewhere behind him. Sarge marched over and bellowed at that poor individual. Moments later, another fell. And another. And another. In quick succession, what Roy estimated to be half the clutch collapsed, arms, legs, or abs giving out on them.

He glanced to his right at Elsha, and saw no movement.

Another minute crawled by. Thud...thud...thud.

Moment by moment, more followed. Then there was a long silence before Sarge’s boots appeared in his peripheral vision.

“You two,” she said.

“Fru, ya, Fru?” he and Elsha said together.

Sarge abruptly kicked Roy’s left arm out from under him. He rolled his weight right just long enough to get his arm back under him, catch his weight, and salvage his Plank.

Sarge laughed. “Impressive, Midgardrin, very impressive. But which of you will outlast the other, hmm? I have all day!”

Roy’s quads started quivering. He swallowed a “Son of a...” Moments later, his arms started to shake. Then his abs. He took deep, controlled breaths, wringing more seconds out of his Plank. He gritted his teeth, grunting under the strain.

His body finally said, nope, and dumped him unceremoniously into the dirt. A moment later, he heard another thump and grunt right next to him.

“Interesting,” said Sarge, “she beat you by a heartbeat.” She raised her voice. “Alright, you sorry lot, get your asses up out of that dirt and stand at attention until someone tells you otherwise!”

A flurry of activity followed. Roy and Elsha exchanged a brief grin. They’d won. Well, more or less. That had been going on all week. Every run, every forced march, every obstacle course, every set of push-ups and burpees, the two of them had consistently left the rest of them in the dust and had usually done it together. Part of their success was certainly from all the training they’d put themselves through aboard _Lopt-hyarta_. And some of it was from their shared desire to become Valkiri. And Roy could live with that.

* * *

Roy and Elsha stood at parade rest before the General.

“Normally,” said Shegwidenson, “we like to, how shall we say, mix things up a little. Push recruits out of their comfort zones. Assign friends to separate units, and so forth. But you two? Do you know how hard it is to train people to work together as a team? Very. You two came here already a well-oiled machine. Or near enough. So I am not going to break that up. That is an invaluable asset.

“Marthason, I am pleased with your progress. I think you will do well enough in the Academy. I have loaded your assignments and the relevant orders into your records. You have two weeks of leave before reporting in Valhala. Do you have any questions?”

“Syr, nei, Syr,” Roy and Elsha said together.

“Good. Dismissed.”

Back in their quarters, Elsha and Roy consulted their slates. Roy blew air out through his mouth. “They are _not_ taking it easy on me, are they?”

Elsha appeared not to hear him. Her mouth turned up, and she squealed.

“What was that?” he asked.

She pointed to her slate. “Do you know what this is?”

“Your courses for the coming year?”

“I mean besides that.”

He shook his head.

“Pilot track! Intermediate level!” she squealed.

“Really? You’re really doing it?”

She nodded vigorously. “Let me see yours.” She practically snatched his slate out of his hands. As she read, her face lit up. “You, too!” she squealed.

She threw her arms around him and kissed him. The kiss deepened. They both put down their slates and sank down onto their leather sofa.


	6. Chapter 6

Roy pointed to a map of Wyoming projected on a wall. “Right there,” he said, indicating an area in the mountains southeast of Yellowstone. “You’ll love it. In fact...”

A klaxon interrupted him. “WHITE ALERT! WHITE ALERT! ALL HANDS TO STATIONS! THIS IS NOT A DRILL! WHITE ALERT!”

Roy exchanged glances with his family, then everyone launched themselves into action. Minutes later, he found himself pelting down the corridor in full General Operations Kit, the others on his heels.

At Red Deck, he paused. “Guthni!” he called.

His daughter turned and looked back at him with eyes a little smaller than her mother's and larger than his own, their vibrant blue irises rimmed in a beautiful gunmetal grey and perfectly spaced on either side of a nose more hooded than her mother's, and set in an oval face with skin that might have been Samoan, but mottled in blue, green, and russet.

It seemed only yesterday that she’d been the proverbial pony-tailed girl, causing trouble all over Asgard. She'd been the only girl on the whole planet with any hair at all, and fiercely proud of it. Now, she had it done up in a fighting braid, jet-black and glinting iridescent in the Bifrost light like newly-welded steel.

With her helmet tucked under a flight-suited arm, and a hair taller than her father at barely seventeen winters--nearly what her mother had been when last she’d been here at Midgard--she'd become the youngest fighter pilot in seven generations.

A thousand thoughts rolled through his head, none of them particularly helpful to a father seeing his daughter off on her first combat mission. Roy fought back tears, and instead thumped a fist on his chest and thrust it into the air. “Asgard am bith!” he called to her.

“Asgard am bith!” she called back before turning away and into the crowd.

“Roi,” said Elsha from behind him.

“I know, I know, I can’t protect her forever. It’s just...”

“I understand,” she said. “I feel it too. And the best way to help her survive...”

“Is to kick some Virini ass,” he finished.

They trotted further into their deck, then clasped hands. He gazed deeply into her eyes. “Kill big, die small,” he told her.

“Kill big, die small,” she echoed.

Out in space, he nudged his Yogyad-class fighter-bomber, built specifically for him with a larger pilot pod and a few other modifications, into formation with the rest of his wing. He heard Elsha’s voice over his comm.

“Red Leader to Red Wing, sound off.”

He waited for the others, then added, “Red Five, standing by.”

Well inside Lunar orbit, the unmistakable silhouette of a Naglfar-class Virinin warship stood out against the blue orb of Earth. Three Surt-class and one Yotun-class ships loitered about as a rear-gard the Virini rarely needed, but deployed anyway, apparently out of long-established habit.

As always, he checked and re-checked his HUD display, weapons status, and the locations of friends and foes. A predatory grin spread across his face as the Esirin force settled into formation. Today was a good day to die...for the Virini.

* * *

Acting Captain Brad Neary checked his instrumentation again, then looked left, right, and behind at what had to be the most pitiful air squadron in history. Cobbled together from old aircraft dragged out of the mothball of several aviation museums in Oregon, notably the Evergreen Museum in McMinnville, the Tillamook Air Museum, and the Air & Space Museum in Eugene.

He flew an F-4 Phantom, which had been cutting-edge during Vietnam. Several other pilots flew planes of similar vintage. A Mig flew off to one side, a Harrier on the other, and an SR-71 Blackbird above him. Behind and below him, several propeller-driven fighters of World-War-II vintage struggled to keep up. If the plan relayed to him via ham operators was correct, they were going to need every gun they had, and then some. If it wasn’t, they were screwed.

Far behind him, Portland burned. He’d been informed that Seattle also had been leveled. The same alien ship that had incinerated Seattle was closing on Boise, and had left a swath of fire in its wake. Fighters had attacked every town and smaller city along the way. The Dalles, Pendelton, Spokane, Walla Walla, all marked by plumes of black smoke rising into the blue summer sky.

He checked his instruments yet again. It had been a miracle of last-minute planning, skill, brutally hard work, and a lot of luck to get all these pieces of junk flying again. Granted, most of them had been in pretty good condition. But none of them had flown in at least a decade. Loosening up all the time-caked engine gunk had been a full-time job by itself. Some of the planes had been missing parts, which had had to be machined, and that after figuring out what the part was in the first place.

The upshot was that his plane rattled like hell, and half the systems hadn’t been thoroughly tested. If the FAA and OSHA had seen the job he’d done getting all these planes off the ground, they’d have slapped him with so much litigation, his grandchildren would have needed lawyers.

He watched the Blue Mountains slide by ten thousand feet beneath him. A part of him wanted to say to hell with it, land along some part of U.S. 26, and do the Grizzly Adams thing. But the other part, the warrior part, the perpetually pissed-off part, the part that saw the plume of dark smoke rising from Pendleton to the north, urged him to push the throttle up. He resisted that action. Getting there first would just get him killed.

Far ahead, just beyond where he judged the gorge of Hells Canyon and the Snake River to be, the miles-wide flying saucer that had flattened Seattle drifted directly toward Boise.

He considered their collective load-out. Some of it was current military-grade AMRAAM missiles, some of it older cluster bombs and Tomahawks from the late ‘80’s and early ‘90’s. He and the other F-4 pilot carried four drums of napalm each. Two older B-17 bombers, three C-130 gunships, and a dozen and a half of the various airtankers appropriated from U.S. Forest Service contractors were loaded out with everything including the kitchen sink. Old-style concussion bombs from the Vietnam era, a few from Korea of questionable stability, homemade redneck things made out of propane canisters, beer kegs, old wine barrels, a pair of broken-down tanker trucks filled with a mix of kerosene, bad heating oil, and alcohol, bags of magnesium shavings, phosphorus powder, leftover fireworks from the New Year’s or the previous July Fourth, or whatever someone had managed to throw together out of the Anarchist’s Cookbook. If it could burn, or better yet explode, someone in his squadron carried it.

Even with maximum armament, what good a few dozen mostly obsolete and in a few cases barely airworthy planes would be against that, he couldn’t say. Even if, by some miracle, they pulled this off, the butcher’s bill was going to be downright stomach-churning.

* * *

Roy swiveled his craft about and drilled another Virinin fighter. He crashed through another, and knocked a third into one of its wing-mates, their shields canceling out. He cleared the debris field and looked for his next target.

“Red Five, we are reading an unusual radiation signature from one of the Virinin fighters,” came a call from Command.

Roy frowned. “Tell me more.”

“The signature is consistent with a high concentration of plutonium.”

“What is the fighter’s vector?”

“It is at the far side of the field of engagement. Its vector indicates it originated on the planet's surface. It is on course to enter the Naglfar.”

That was odd. Why would a fighter be carrying plutonium in the first place, let alone flying it up from Earth and _into_ a Naglfar? Unless… “Command, I have a theory. I believe the Midgardi have captured a fighter and fitted it with a high-yield thermonuclear device. They mean to detonate it inside the Naglfar.”

“Would they do that?”

“Without hesitation, ya.”

“What is the effective radius of such a weapon?”

Roy thought for a moment. He’d grown up during the Cold War and people had always been talking about that stuff. But he’d been away for so long, and he had no idea what progress his people had made in nuclear weapons technology. His best guess? “Minimum safe distance for the weapon itself? Ten kliki? But that is for warheads exploded just above the ground in an atmosphere. Inside a Naglfar? It would gut the ship, I think. But if it destabilizes the ship’s reactor...”

A few moments later, a command came through. “All craft, fly clear of the Naglfar. Fighting retreat. Minimum safe distance is one hundred thousand kliki. We repeat, fly clear.”

Roy grunted, then signaled acknowledgment. He checked for threats, rail-gunned the two nearest, then swung his ship around, and punched it.

In his HUD, the Friendly dots drifted in the same general direction he headed. Many of the red dots followed, mostly blinking out one by one. Roy realigned, bringing particle-beam cannons to bear on another three Virini.

Friendly craft collected in high Midgard orbit.

A familiar voice came over the conn. “This is Red Leader,” she said, “all pilots in Sector Eight report in.”

He listened to the call signs roll by, adding his own in turn. He felt some tension flow out of him when Guthni reported in as Gold Twenty.

“Right,” said Elsha, “configure for atmospheric descent, and form up on me. Plunge in ten marki.”

Roy smiled, and moved as directed. He waved at his wife, though she probably couldn’t see him. Ten marks later, the entire formation wheeled about and dropped. Roy grinned. He finally felt like he was helping defend his homeworld.

He tipped his craft into position, feeling the extreme upper atmosphere buffet the hull. Fortunately, their initial velocity was very low, not the fourteen to seventeen thousand miles per hour conventional craft needed in order to remain in low orbit. Friction with the atmosphere would be a lot lower. It would also take a lot longer to reach the ground. But at least they were going.

Behind him, something phenomenally bright flared. He checked his HUD, calling up the geographical overlay. It looked like they were heading straight for Idaho. He wanted to know what might he happening in his former home, in Indiana. That would have to wait. For now, he had more Virini to kill.

* * *

Brad took a slow, controlled breath, and let it back out, counting down the minutes. He cursed under his breath. Their window of opportunity, the total time the enemy’s shield was expected to be down, was to be somewhere between five and ten minutes, twenty at most, a half hour if they were really lucky. He figured the squadron would reach the target with less than one minute to go. He could work with that, but just barely. They’d have to.

Forest faded as the ground fell, giving way to sagebrush country and bunch grasses. Brad followed that, keeping low and feeling for updrafts. Some of the aircraft didn’t have that luxury. The SR-71, as a function of its design, just couldn’t fly that low or that slow. They’d barely had enough runway to get the thing airborne in the first place and even then, they’d needed a ramp. That pilot was probably already at the target.

“This is AWACS to Beaver One, Beaver One, come in.” Yup, that would be him.

“This is Beaver One, go ahead, AWACS.”

“Beaver One, I have the target in sight. Target is twenty thousand feet below and it still on course for Boise. Still no response.”

“Roger that. Status on Mountain Home?”

“Stand by.” After several seconds. “Beaver One, I have line-of-sight with Mountain Home AFB. Air is clear. I repeat, air is clear.”

Brad let out the breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding. Mountain Home Air Force Base southeast of Boise was home to the 366th fighter wing, and to Singapore’s 428th fighter squadron. Between them, they could put twenty F-16’s and sixty F-15’s into the air, minus whatever they might have sent to reinforce Ft. Lewis and Fairchild in Spokane.

Clear air meant nothing burning. Which meant he could still expect help from the 366th.

“Maintain position and continue with mission objective.” Having no armament, the Blackbird pilot had two roles: advanced surveillance of the target; and keeping some of the inevitable alien fighters occupied.

“Roger that. AWACS out.”

Fair enough. “Beaver One to Mountain Home Command, do you copy?”

He prayed someone was there. After a few moments. “This is Mountain Home Command. Who is this?” a woman’s voice demanded.

“Mountain Home, this is acting Captain Brad Neary, Oregon Air Guard, commanding First Beaver Wing. What’s your status?”

Several seconds of silence followed. “Captain, we have no record of a Beaver Wing.”

“We cobbled it together out of whatever we could scrounge up.” He quickly ran down the list of the aircraft in Beaver Wing.

After another long pause, “Beaver One, with all due respect, are you crazy?”

Brad decided to ignore the question. “Command,” he said instead, “have you been informed of the plan from Area Fifty-One?”

“Beaver One, that’s classified.”

“Command, with all due respect, I’d tell you where to shove your classification, but we don’t have that kind of time. You have less than fifteen minutes to get whatever you have left prepped and into the air. We expect to have a window of less than fifteen minutes to take that thing down. I know you know what I'm talking about because it's fifteen damn miles across and if you can't see that, you're frickin' blind. Now, we’re going to need each other’s help to do that. Or do you want to go down in history as the person who screwed the pooch for the good people of Boise?”

After several more seconds, “Beaver One, please be advised, we are already scrambling. The Three Sixty-sixth will be in the air momentarily.”

“Glad to hear it, Command. That’s all I needed to know. We’ll leave the light on for you.” Then, “Beaver One to Beaver Wing, Mountain Home is responding.” They’d damn well better, he added to himself. “Keep your eyes peeled for them and watch each other’s backs. Things should start getting hairy pretty quickly.

“Chinook Squadron...” That was the designator for the bomber planes. “...climb to altitude. Coho...” Those were the older, mainly WW-II-era fighters. “...cover them. Everyone else, form up on my wing. Let’s git ‘er done!”

He watched out of the corners of his eyes as planes drifted toward their positions.

“Beaver One, this is AWACS. I have friendlies from Mountain Home coming on RADAR. Friendlies are moving to intercept target from the southeast.”

“Roger that, AWACS.”

With the flick of a couple of switches, he armed a Tomahawk, then watched the countdown timer he'd set from Area 52's data. When it reached zero, he took a deep breath. “Beaver One, fox two!”

The plane rocked slightly at the missile’s release. A trail of smoke followed it on its way. Brad willed it onward. The seconds seemed to stretch into years. The missile exploded meters from the target’s hull in a flash of fire and a ripple of green. He cursed violently.

* * *

Roy brought his fighter-bomber out of descent mode and rolled to give himself a better view of the terrain. His HUD indicated a single Surt-class vessel drifting toward...Boise, it looked like. Streaks of white cloud, contrails from the look of them, pointed toward it.

“Red Leader to Red Five,” came Elsha, “what do you make of that?”

“It looks like the United States Air Force is engaging that Surt. That's suicide!”

“Red Leader to all craft on my wing, target the Surt and open fire when in range. I want at least five Tesseract bombs released in the opening salvo. Who has one?”

Several replied, including Guthni.

“Asgard am bith!” Elsha called, echoed by everyone else.

* * *

“Beaver One, this is AWACS, I have a visual on several bogies descending fast.”

Brad checked his RADAR. Nothing. “Say again, AWACS?”

“I repeat, I have visual on ten...no, twenty...no, make that at least thirty bogies converging from extreme high altitude.”

“This is Command, we have negative RADAR contact.”

“That's affirmative, Command. Visual only.”

“Captain,” said a woman’s voice, one he recognized as a Lt. Samantha Carter, piloting one of three A-6 Intruders, “I’ve got a visual on those bogies. Sir, they’re right over us!”

Brad watched as one of the new ships, looking something like a squid, dropped out of the sky to take up position not more than a dozen yards off his left wing between himself and Carter. In a bubble on its top side sat what looked like a person. Its pilot waved, gave Brad the unmistakable Thumbs-Up sign, then looked forward and flipped The Bird to the Saucer.

“This is Beaver One. One of the bogies has formed up on my wing. Its pilot has given me thumbs-up and has flipped off the Target. Bogies should be considered friendlies.”

Ahead, what looked like lines of vapor descended from the sky, punching through the shield and hitting the hull. From his distance, he couldn’t tell what sort of effect that was having, if any. But the pilot of the flying squid off his wing seemed satisfied. The craft rose sharply and emitted the same sort of vapor stream. No, not a stream, just the effect of something else on atmospheric moisture. The shield flared, then vanished.

“AWACS, this is Beaver One. Are you seeing what I'm seeing?”

“Confirmed, Beaver One. Bogies are attacking the Saucer. They’re...oh, hell. AWACS to friendlies, bogies have deployed a weapon breaching the Saucer's hull. I repeat, bogies have breached the Target. A section of Target's dorsal hull has peeled back like a banana.”

“Well, boys and girls,” said Brad, “it looks like we might get at that chewy filling after all.” He armed another Tomahawk. “Beaver One, fox two!”

He watched that one leap out. It passed through where the shield had been and slammed into the saucer, a gout of yellow-orange flame and metallic debris marking the impact site.

“ _YES!_ ” he bellowed. “Beaver Wing, this is Beaver One. Shield is down. I repeat, shield is down! Fire at will, I repeat, fire at will!”

“What about the newcomers, sir?”

“Looks like they’re on our side, Lieutenant. Let’s not give them a reason to change their minds. Mountain Home Command, have you received that?”

“Roger, Beaver One. All pilots are engaging Target.”

Brad listened to the cacophony of calls as his people unleashed fury upon the Saucer, and watched fire blossom on its hull.

Brad watched one of the Squids—he could think of nothing else to call them—lob something at the Saucer. In a flash of blue, a large section of outer hull folded outward, leaving a hole the size of a football field.

“Beaver Wing, this is Beaver One. I’m going to lob a can of napalm into that hole.”

“Sir, can you hit that?”

“If I can’t hit something the size of a football field at this range, I have no business being up here.”

He adjusted his attitude, and armed a napalm can. Just a little more. The target area was pretty big, all things considered, but a napalm can had to be delivered ballistically.

“Beaver One, fire two!” He released, then pulled up sharply, clearing the Saucer’s upper hull by less than a hundred feet. Too close.

“Nice shot, sir!” came Carter’s voice.

Brad pulled up more, preparing to come around for another pass. Off to his left, a Squid opened up another large hole in the Saucer’s dorsal side. He glanced up at an approaching B-17, its bay doors gaping wide.

“This is Chinook One, we are over the target. Let's see how many licks it takes to get to the Tootsie-Roll center!”

Dozens of small objects tumbled out of the bomber's belly. Moments later, the plane climbed and banked away. “This is Chinook One. Payload depleted. Request permission to leave field of engagement.”

“Permission granted, Chinook One. Mountain Home, you have an incoming B-Seventeen.”

“Acknowledged.”

Brad arced around to the right, gaining altitude, coming back just in time to see fire erupt from the hole. Another bomb fell from a second bomber, this one he recognized as one of the thousand-gallon tanks of kerosene mix. It, too, fell into the hole, and a large slab of hull rose up into the air beneath a fireball.

Something small and white fell out of another B-17, probably one of the bags of magnesium. He chuckled. Good luck putting THAT out, you alien assholes!

Another bomber dropped several wooden barrels of nitric acid into another freshly-opened hole, then banked away and toward Mt. Home.

And...those guys are going to start getting pissed off...right about...now. As if on cue, the Saucer's bow erupted with a swarm of black fighters looking like little crabs.

“Shit,” he muttered, “I hate it when I’m right. Beaver One to Beaver Wing, enemy fighters entering the field, I repeat, enemy fighters!”

Brad rolled left and punched it, squeezing off a few machinegun rounds. He had just enough time to see some of them rake an enemy fighter. He climbed, rolled again, and lined up for a run at their hangar. He squeezed the trigger again, hitting several as they poured out of the Saucer’s bow. It was going to be close.

“This is Gunfigher One to Beaver One, we are entering the field of engagement. Don't hog all the fun.”

“Roger that, Gunfighter One. There's plenty for everyone.”

“Gunfighter One, fox two!” A cluster of missile trail erupted from the sky to the east, tomahawks slamming into the Saucer a minute later.

He armed his second napalm drum, lined up, and released, banking up and away. Fire poured out of the hangar mouth, running down the bow like some strange fiery drool. “Damn,” he muttered.

He armed a missile and lined up for another run at the hangar. “Beaver One, fox two!” The missile sped into the hangar and exploded, fire belching out. “That’s better,” he growled.

Something green flashed past his peripheral vision. “Shit,” he grunted, and banked right, rolling downward, and leveling off again.

A squid slid into view. Brad did a double-take. The craft was, in fact, slipping sideways. Not just slipping, but pivoting as it slid, its forward weaponry drilling death into one enemy fighter after another. Moments later, it shot straight up, swiveled again, and drilled another hole into the Saucer.

“Damn,” he muttered, “I have _got_ to get me one of _those!_ ”

Another blob of that green energy shot past his canopy, close enough to crack the tempered glass. He rolled again, gunning down a fighter, then another. Missiles streaked past him, some hitting fighters, others slamming into the Saucer, and a few finding holes in its outer hull.

He climbed, watching an airtanker drop its load onto the Saucer. A Warthog pumped anti-tank rounds at the Saucer's hangar, chewing through emerging fighters. “Candy-gram for Mongo!” called the pilot. “Beaver seven, fox four!” and a cluster of rockets peeled away from the Warthog's wing.

“Beaver One, this is Beaver Twenty-Eight. Ordnance expended. Leaving field of engagement.” The airtanker was already banking away. An escorting Spitfire shot a Crab away from its charge.

“Roger that. Thanks for your help.”

Brad watched the plane climb up, then bank toward the southeast and the Air Force base, the next one already lining up for its run.

A Hercules dipped low, then tilted up, dumping a load of explosive cargo out its tail end, its howitzer and Gatling guns pumping out rounds as fast as the gunnery crew could acquire targets. A Mustang swatted three Crabs off the Hercules. The Herc cleared the Saucer's disk and banked, still pumping rounds at it. Several more Crabs closed on it. A blast sheared off a howitzer mount. A Squid came out of nowhere, spitting what looked like bolts of blue light at the Crabs before smashing through one, righting itself, and speeding off in a seemingly random direction. The Herc took a hit through a starboard engine, bits of it flying off in every direction.

“Beaver Thirty-six to Beaver One, we've taken fatal damage. We're going down!”

“Bail out! Bail out!” Brad watched the plane descend, trailing smoke. A Crab shredded the plane's tail assembly. It hit the ground at a shallow angle, plowing up dirt and sagebrush.

More enemy fighters took his attention. A minute later, “Beaver Seven, I'm hit!” came Carter’s voice.

“Bail out!” Off to Brad's right, he watched Carter’s plane plow into the Saucer's dorsal hull. A moment later, her chute blossomed briefly. He exhaled heavily. “Beaver One to Beaver Ten,” he said to the Harrier pilot, “pilot down on the Saucer. Can you extract?”

“Negative, Beaver One, I'm a little busy with these buggers!”

“Can you disengage?”

“Not going to happen, sir.”

One of the Squids streaked across the Saucer below him and screeched to a halt just above where Brad had seen Carter come down. Moments later, it sped off, but Carter was gone.

“Dammit. Beaver Ten, disregard. One of the Squids has her.”

“Say again, sir?”

“I repeat, one of the Squids picked her up. As you were.” He pumped more rounds at a knot of Crabs, narrowly missing more of that green crap they kept belching out an everything that moved.

Below, a Hellcat trailed smoke before vanishing below the edge of the Saucer.

A trio of Squids fell slowly down the side of the Saucer's nose, that large box-like protrusion defining the vessel's bow, cutting at it with blue-purple beam cannons of some sort.

More pilots called out missile launches amid the chaos of planes, bullets, Crabs, Squids, missiles, whatever it was the Crabs and Squids kept spewing around, and the staccato of explosions.

He drilled a Crab and climbed above the Saucer. The whole thing looked like its own war zone. Multiple rents belched fire and smoke. The last bomber had dropped its load into a freshly-opened hole near the Saucer's bow. The resulting shockwave bucked his plane as he banked away from it.

Partway around its circumference, the Saucer's nose suddenly calved off like an iceberg, plunging onto plain below.

Brad grinned. It looked like maybe they were going to pull this off after all.


	7. Chapter 7

A scent of pine sap mingled with sagebrush floated across a Wyoming breeze. Beneath the sparse forest canopy, penstemons held purple-blue knobs of flowers above their tufts of leaves, yellow balsamroot slowly waved on stout stems, and red paintbrush thrust spikes of jagged flowers toward the sun. At the edges, where the needles thinned, spikes purple lupine swayed in the breeze.

A pair of mountain bluebirds flitted about. Nutcrackers chittered, and a trio of Steller’s jaws jabbered at each other. Somewhere out of sight, a lone raven cawed its gravelly bell call. A deer paused, scented the air, then plunged deeper into the forest.

Roy looked up at the blue, nearly cloudless sky. “You’d never know we were in a war zone,” he said.

“Do not be silly,” said Elsha. “The whole galaxy is a war zone.” Then she added, “But I know what you mean. It is beautiful here. We have nothing quite like this on Asgard.”

Roy took a deep breath and held it for a time before slowly letting it back out. “It smells like home,” he said.

“Is not home where is the heart?” asked Guthni.

Roy chuckled. “So they say.”

He’d spent more than a third of his fifty-two years among the Esiri. If one allowed for the sparsely-remembered single-digit years, it may as well have been half his life. He’d come to feel at home among them. No matter that he’d only spent eleven years on Asgard, the equivalent of four of which he’d spent hither and yon throughout the Gimle System. And despite his marriage to Elsha and the raising of Guthni, his overall purpose still had kept him firmly pointed back toward Earth.

With the Virini invasion turning everything on its ear, there hadn’t been many places Roy could have searched for his human family. Indiana, particularly Indianapolis and its surroundings, had been devastated. Still, a lot could have happened in the last nineteen years.

There was no guarantee Ronnie had stayed put, and even less of a guarantee that the kids had stayed close. They could each have been anywhere. Even thumbing through the phone book might not have been terribly productive, especially if Ronnie had remarried, or gone back to using her maiden name. Short of walking up to that particular door and knocking, there was really only one place to start.

“Are you sure her father’s cabin is here?” Elsha asked. “There is a lot of this forest, and we did not arrive by road.”

She had a point. Roy remembered how to drive to the place, even allowing for the inevitable confusion bound to be created by new roads, new development, and changes to the forest. But names of places didn’t change, and he’d spent plenty of time pouring over maps back in the day. But they’d spotted it from a hundred clicks up and a decade and a half of training and service as an Enheryerun had taught him a thing or two about aerial navigation.

“Yep,” he said. “In fact, it’s right over…there.” He pointed across a clearing to more shaded pine forest. A gravel road crested a subtle rise, curved a little, and ended at an expanse big enough he could have landed a shuttle on it. “Someone’s made a few upgrades,” he said as they approached.

Elsha and Guthni followed Roy as he wound his way around clumps of sagebrush and rabbitbrush. Grey dust puffed up from each boot-fall. They crunched across the pale grey gravel parking pad, vacant but for a small black snake with yellow stripes that slithered away toward the trees.

Roy paused briefly before taking the three steps to the broad front porch. He knocked on the door, then stepped aside and peered through a window.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” he pronounced. He tried the door. As he expected, it was locked.

“We could smash the door,” Guthni suggested.

“Ya,” he said, “but that would be breaking and entering. I’d rather not have to deal with that.”

“What about Section Eight-dash-Four-dash-Two?” Guthni asked.

That was a provision applying to active battle zones. It gave Esirin personnel blanket authorization to press any structure into service without specific permission from the structure's owner.

He knelt down beside a large stone trough situated at the edge of the porch, tipped it up. “I don't think it would help. Not here. I’d feel better if...” He felt beneath it, then pulled out a key. “That is so cliché,” he said.

The key slid easily into the deadbolt and knob both. The door swung noiselessly open. He led the way inside, setting the key on an end table beside a sofa.

“Well,” he said, “the décor is the same. Mostly.” He shrugged. “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, I guess.”

Plenty of daylight poured into the cabin, a small house really, and Roy initially felt like he'd stepped straight into the mid-seventies. Although something seemed a little off. The color scheme was about right, but with less pea-soup green and burnt orange, and less corduroy upholstery. No, the more he looked at it, the more it really looked like that timeless rustic hunting lodge effect.

And the more he looked, the more he noticed the differences. The furniture was all more or less in the same spots he remembered, and all more or less the same general type. All the tables were about the same size and shape, and made of wood. He was beginning to think maybe they’d come to a dead end before they’d even started.

Elsha and Guthni drifted around the corner and into the kitchen area while Roy walked across the living room to the wood-stove mantle.

“What _is_ all of this?” Elsha asked.

Roy looked over to see her holding a kitchen implement.

“Uh...I think it’s a potato masher.”

“Huh.” She returned it to its place. “I think I am beginning to understand how you felt when you first came to live with us.”

He picked up a framed eight-by-ten photograph. It showed Ronnie—aged by at least a decade, but still unmistakably the same woman—two young men he almost recognized, a young woman who looked remarkably like Ronnie, and a man he was pretty sure he’d never seen in his life.

Tears welled up in his eyes. “Well,” he croaked, “I think we found the right place.”

He heard a metallic click from somewhere behind him. “Freeze, baldy,” said a familiar female voice. “Hands where I can see them.”

He lifted one hand, slowly set the photo back in its spot and raised the other.

“Your friend, too.”

Roy cast a glance toward the kitchen. Elsha and Guthni made several military gestures to each other and to him before sliding quietly out the back door.

“It's just me, Ronnie.”

After a conspicuous pause, she said, “Just turn around. Slowly.”

Roy complied. A woman stood inside the door, and a little to one side, dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, and a khaki button shirt, her hair tied back into a tight ponytail. He’d have recognized her anywhere. The years and cares had carved lines in her face, though probably not more than he might have expected. And he thought he could see a few grey streaks in the dirty blonde hair. She’d put on a little weight, though his years of sizing up opponents told him that a fair bit of it was muscle. Whatever she’d been doing, she was in phenomenal shape, especially for pushing fifty.

She held in both hands a pistol, trained directly at Roy’s chest. Her bearing suggested a degree of competence he wouldn’t have expected.

“Who the hell are you and what the hell are you doing in my house?” she demanded.

“You won't shoot me,” he said evenly.

Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”

“Because you hate guns.”

“Uh-huh. Remington here says otherwise.”

“I thought so. That, or Smith-and-Wesson.”

“Do I know you?” she said hesitantly.

He nodded. “Yup. Exceptionally well, I’d say.”

“Right. But that doesn’t answer the question.”

“Questions. You asked two.”

She cocked her head in that ‘don’t give me your bull’ posture he knew so well.

“You don’t recognize me, do you? It’s the hair, right?”

“Who... _are_...you?”

Elsha and Guthni crept onto the porch. Roy gave a slight nod in Ronnie’s direction. Guthni drew her force-lance to cover Elsha, who in a single fluid motion, stepped over the threshold, ignited her lyos-sferth, and positioned it near Ronnie’s right hand.

“Lower the weapon,” Elsha ordered.

Ronnie stared wide-eyed at the pulsing blue energy blade.

“Do it now,” Elsha continued. “I will not allow you to harm him. If your finger so much as twitches, you will lose that hand.”

“That's another reason you won't shoot me,” Roy said.

Ronnie swore under her breath, then slowly lowered the gun. When it was pointed toward the floor, she eased the hammer back into its rest position.

“Place it on that table,” said Elsha.

Ronnie took a careful step forward, lay the gun gently on the table, then stepped back, never taking her eyes off the pulsing blue blade.

“Roi,” said Elsha, “do you know this woman?”

“Ya,” he said, lowering his hands. “This is Ronnie.”

Elsha blinked. “Ronda, out of Tina, by Rik?”

“How…?” Ronnie began.

Elsha shut off her weapon, the blade collapsing with a decisive SHFT. “Roi has told me so much about you,” she said. “All the good things, I assure you.” She glanced down. “All the way up,” she said pensively. “Ah! That makes sense now!”

“Wha…?”

“Roi told me once that your legs go all the way up. I did not understand that idiom, even after he explained it. Now I do. What a difference a visual aid can make, ya?”

“What do you...” Ronnie turned to look at Elsha. Her eyes went wide. She yelped, and jumped back, bumping into an easy chair, almost falling into it.

Elsha exhaled. “Ronda Tinasdottir,” she said, “I mean you no harm.”

Guthni stepped inside. “Are we secure?” she asked.

Ronnie started again.

“Ya,” said Elsha. Then to Ronnie, “Neither does she. Now, relax please.”

“Who...and what...they hell...are you?” she demanded.

“Ronnie,” said Roy, “you know exactly who I am. We only spent ten years and made three kids together.”

Ronnie blinked. “Roy?” she said hesitantly.

He nodded.

“But...but...you’re dead!”

Roy chuckled. “Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Asgard, mostly.”

“Where?”

“Long story.”

“And who the hell are they?” she said, nodding toward Elsha and Guthni.

Elsha extended her hand. “Elsha, out of Ithuna, by Bragi,” she said.

Ronnie recovered her balance and took Elsha’s hand, tentatively at first.

Guthni stepped up beside her and extended her own hand. Ronnie shook it mid-introduction. “Guthni, out of Elsha, by Roi,” she said.

Ronnie froze, looked from Guthni to Elsha to Roy to Guthni, and back again. “Oh...my...God, Roy.”

“Like I said, long story.”

Ronnie stepped back and looked again at Roy. “I don't doubt it. What happened to you? What are you doing here? Why aren’t you dead? And who the hell are these...people?”

Roy took a step toward Ronnie. “It’s a long story. I have time to tell some of it.”

She took a step toward him, keeping a conspicuous distance from Elsha and Guthni. “Yeah,” she said at length, “please. Because I’ve got nothing.” She abruptly crossed the room and wrapped her arms around his torso. “Oh, Roy...” She sniffed back a tear. He hugged her back. But whatever spark there’d once been between them—and there’d been an awful lot of spark at one time—had utterly gone.

She released him and stepped back. “Sorry,” she said. “I used to wonder what I’d do if I could hug you one more time, if it would make any difference to anything.”

“And?”

She exhaled. “It’s complicated.” She peered at him. “What are you wearing, anyway, armor?”

“Ya.”

She blinked. “Really?”

“Starfleet Regulation Eight-point-Five-point-Nine,” said Guthni, “’No Enheryer personnel shall enter an active battle zone without full gear.’”

“Starfleet?”

“Yup.”

“Uh-huh,” said Ronnie. “And Roy? You smell funny.”

“I do?”

She nodded. “When was the last time you showered?”

“Um...before I left?”

Her eyes went wide. “Are you telling me you haven’t taken a shower in nineteen years?!”

“Well...sponge baths and the occasional swim, if that...”

She flung out an arm, pointing toward the short hallway off to his left. “Get.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

He started to remove his armor, reaching toward the dining table.

“Oh, no you don't,” said Ronnie. “And what _is_ the rest of this crap on my dining table?”

“More armor,” said Elsha.

Ronnie picked up a helmet and raised an eyebrow, then held it out to Elsha. “Are you people space Vikings or something?” She shook her head. “Actually, I don't care, just get it off my table.”

Elsha and Guthni cleared the shields and helmets off the table and set them on a sofa.

It took Roy a few minutes more to get out of armor and lay it on the porch before padding down the hall to the cabin’s lone bathroom.

“Oh,” Ronnie called after him, “the power's down, so we're on propane. Don't know when we can get more, so watch it with the hot water, okay?”

“Got it!” he called back.

The décor in that room had changed considerably. In fact, it looked a lot like what he remembered from what she’d done to their bedroom in Illinois. There was certainly enough lace and rose patterning on, well, just about everything. Not to mention that there was enough potpourri to choke a camel. At least, there would have been if it were fresh. And how many vanilla candles did one person need, anyway?

Did she own the cabin now, having inherited it from her father? Nineteen years were certainly enough time for that to have happened, too. Geez, he’d been away too long.

He shucked out of his underarmor clothing and left it in an attempt at a tidy pile on the floor by the door. Some time later, he stepped back out of the shower. He’d forgotten just how good that felt. And he’d steamed up the mirror. He hoped he’d remembered to leave some hot water for Ronnie. At least his buzz cut had drastically reduced the need for shampoo.

He pulled a soft terry towel off a shelf, dried down, then tied it around his waist before opening the door, a wave of much cooler and drier air hitting him. No sooner had he taken three steps down the hall, than a familiar, and sorely-missed aroma tickled his nose. He changed course, stepping from the rough-finished plank flooring in the hall to the kitchen’s tile flooring.

At the center of the kitchen’s small island, a cone filter sat atop one of several of various stoneware mugs, presumably locally-produced. Beside it sat a small stoneware bowl half-filled with raw sugar cubes, and a moderate-sized stoneware pitcher.

Ronnie stood there, pouring steaming water into the first cone.

“Is that...coffee? _Real_ coffee?”

“Yes,” she said, still looking down, “yes it is.”

For a moment, he was twenty years in the past, the summer before the Esiri had taken him. Or, rather, the way it might have been, had he and Ronnie actually been getting along as well as he’d thought they’d been at the time.

He dragged in a breath through the nose. “That’s almost as orgasmic as the shower, and I haven’t even had a sip yet.”

“A shower can be like that?” He looked over to see Elsha drumming her fingers on the countertop and smiled.

“That’s TMI, people,” said Ronnie. She tipped the teapot back, stopping the flow of water into the cone and looked up. Her eyes widened. “Whoa. What...what happened to _you_?”

“What do you mean?” said Roy.

She gestured at him. “That. You didn’t even have abs like that when we met. And you’re...” She paused. “...fifty-two!”

“Hard work and discipline.”

“Uh-huh. Hard work and discipline don’t turn you into Conan the Barbarian.”

“And sex,” said Elsha.

Ronnie shot her a look.

“And who is this Konan?” Elsha asked, ignoring Ronnie’s half-glare.

“Epic hero from mythical versions of Midgard’s Bronze and early Iron Ages,” said Roy.

“Midgard?” said Ronnie.

“It’s their name for Earth.”

Ronnie handed Roy a mug of coffee, barely steaming in the warm summer air. He took a deep sniff. “Ahh!” He sipped. “Mmmm. That’s almost as orgasmic as the shower.”

“You can do that in your shower?” Elsha teased. “Why have you not said so before? I would have joined you!”

“Ha, ha, ha,” said Ronnie flatly. She poured herself a mug, then sat down herself, took a sip, then looked at Roy. “What happened to you?”

“It’s a long story.” He flexed a bicep. “You really think I look like Conan?”

“Oh, be still my beating heart!” said Elsha in Esirin.

Roy smirked at her and winked. She batted her eyelids in return.

“Parents,” said Guthni. “Really, if it were not for the genetics, I would be up to my neck in siblings by now.”

“Uh-huh,” said Ronnie. “And the scars?”

He grunted. “Virini are good at finding chinks in the armor.”

“Virini? Sounds Italian.”

Roy chuckled. “Not even close. And yeah, every one of them hurt like hell. Except for this one.” He tapped his chest.

“I don’t see anything.”

He tapped again. “It’s my heart.”

Ronnie’s eyebrows rose. “You had a coronary?”

Roy grinned. “Not exactly.” He nodded toward Elsha. “She stole it from me.”

“Aw,” said Elsha. “You say the sweetest things.”

She leaned up, he leaned down, and they kissed.

“What is that expression,” said Guthni, “get a room, you two!”

“This is a room,” said Elsha without taking her eyes off of Roy’s.

“Will you two stop being so cute?” said Ronnie.

“Must we?” said Elsha.

“So, what was all the laughter?” Roy asked after a moment.

“Oh,” said Ronnie, “Elsha was showing me some of your...uh...home videos.”

“Uh-oh. Which ones?”

“The one with her kicking you in the head. That one alone was almost worth the price of admission.”

He chuckled. “It wasn’t much fun at the time.”

“Oh,” said Elsha, “but it is one of my treasured memories.”

“As I recall, you weren’t amused at the time, either.”

“Oh, I was not. Not remotely. You made us late, which earned us punishment burpii. Then you ignored my advice to watch and listen, which led to that first sparring match.” She picked up a coffee bean. “These coffee beani...they are strange. But they smell good.”

“But the best one,” said Ronnie, “was the...Three Seashells. Look, I won’t say life didn’t suck after you left, because it did. But having to deal with those damned seashells every day for nineteen years is just about penance enough in my book.”

Roy chuckled. “I tried to eat less the whole first month. For...obvious reasons. Didn’t work.”

Elsha hrmphed. “What do _you_ use?”

“Toilet paper,” said Ronnie.

“What is that?” Guthni asked.

Roy explained it.

“That is barbaric!” Guthni exclaimed.

“And you stayed with these people? For nineteen years?”

Roy sighed. “I thought about it...about coming back, I mean, calling the whole thing off. But by the time it occurred to me, Lopt-hyarta...that was their starship, means ‘Sky-heart’ in their language...had already passed Sol’s heliopause. By then, it was too late.”

“Let me guess,” said Ronnie, “you’d fallen in love, right?”

Elsha chortled laughter over the burbling coffee pot. “Oh, goodness, nei! It was nearly a week before we stopped glaring at each other half the time.”

“The other half,” Roy said, “we got along okay, or were asleep. No, it was mostly because there was no way the Admiral was going to turn the ship around. I’d been chosen, so he said, and he would not be persuaded otherwise.”

“Mom?” came a young woman’s voice from the porch. “Are you okay? The horses are restless and there's some weird stuff on the...” She stopped just inside the vague transition from dining area to kitchen, took one look at Elsha and Guthni, and screeched.

“Gah!” said Elsha. “Roi, are all of your people this...jumpy?”

“Not usually.”

“It’s alright, honey,” said Ronnie, “they’re friends.”

The young woman shook her head. “No, they’re...” She pointed upward.

“We are not your enemy,” said Elsha. She looked back at Ronnie. “This would be your daughter, then? Silvia, out of Ronda, by Roi?”

“How do you know my name?” Silvia asked.

“Sister!” Guthni squealed. She took a single step across the space between them, caught Silvia in a firm hug, and kissed her on the cheek.

Silvia stiffened, then began to hyperventilate.

“Do relax, please,” said Guthni. “I have always dreamed of having a sister. Of the day I would meet you.” She cocked her head. “I do hope you will want to know me as I want to know you.”

Roy had crossed the room almost before he knew it. “Silvia?” he said.

“Wh...wh...who are you? And what is that?”

“Not this again,” Guthni muttered in Esirin.

Roy placed his hands on Silvia’s shoulders. “You really don’t remember me?”

She stared at him, her blue eyes just like her mother’s. “I...I...”

“Silvia,” said Ronnie, “it’s your father.”

Silvia blinked, then shook her head slightly. “Can’t be. He’s dead.”

“Plausible deniability,” said Roy.

Silvia looked from Guthni to Roy to Elsha and back. He could practically watch the gears turning in her head.

“Did they...probe you?” she asked at length.

Roy shook his head. “Not like that, anyway.”

Elsha giggled. “It was the other way around.”

“What?”

“ _He_ probed _me_ ,” said Elsha, then added, “Over...and over...and over.”

“That’s...that’s enough,” said Ronnie.

“Oh, but he is very good at it.”

“Roy has his faults, but that isn’t one of them.”

Elsha giggled again. “That is for certain.”

“Okay,” said Silvia, “this is weird. Mom and an alien are talking about sex with my father.”

“She has a point,” said Roy, “especially because I’m right here.”

Ronnie handed Silvia a mug of coffee. “Silvia, pull up a stool, please.”

“Do I have to? The horses...”

“Will be fine for a little while. Your father owes us an explanation, if nothing else. And we both need to hear it. Besides,” she added, looking at Roy, “I'm extremely curious. Okay, ex-late husband, start talking.”

* * *

Roy lowered his coffee mug, stoneware as rough under his hand as his life had been on his family. He leaned a shoulder against one of the hewn and stained pine trunks that held up the roof at the porch’s edge. He turned his head at the sound of footsteps.

Ronnie padded out barefooted. She’d changed out of jeans and button shirt into a light yellow sundress, hair still damp from a shower. She stepped up beside him, keeping a noticeable foot or so between them and sipped another mug of coffee.

A fleeting urge to put a hand around her waist and pull her to him passed almost before he knew it was there.

“Those alien girls sure know their way around a kitchen,” she said, “for all their snarking at our strange implements. And you're combat pilots?”

“Valkiri, ya. Well, Guthni’s position is provisional, of course. Until she goes through the Academy at Valhala. She’s trying to break her mother’s record as the youngest Valkira, and I think she stands a good chance. And I’m not just saying that as her father.”

Ronnie looked at him for a moment. “Well, they make a mean omelet, that’s for sure.”

“You sound surprised.”

“What, that some space-faring combat pilots can cook?”

“What were you expecting, Star Trek?”

“Pretty much. Actually, what _really_ surprises me is that _you_ can cook. I couldn't have _paid_ you to get in the kitchen.”

Roy chuckled. “Their 'if you don't help, you don't eat' threat was effective.”

"From the sound of it, Elsha's approach to field cooking during operations was pretty persuasive, too. Too bad they won’t eat bacon, though.”

Roy chuckled. “Ya, that’s one thing I’ve missed. Oh, you should have seen how horrified they all were the first time I suggested burgers and barbecue for dinner.”

She took another sip of coffee. “Do they really _grow_ all their leather?”

Roy nodded and took a sip himself. “Yup. Kind of a hydroponic thing. Way back when, they took it off the animal, just like here. But it’s been generations since. Nowadays, about the only things the Esiri will kill are plants, germs, and Virini, with a few inevitable exceptions. They kind of take the idea of militant pacifism to a whole new level.

“Anyway, I think you’d enjoy life among the Esiri. Of course, if you’d come, I’d never have wound up with Elsha, and Guthni would never have been born. Elsha would have married Duke Stick-up-the-Butt.”  
Ronnie half-sporfled her coffee. “You said it was...Iron Rod or Arnrod or something.”

“Ya, but everyone called him that behind his back. She’d have married him, partly out of duty, and partly to save poor Ena. One of Elsha’s cousins, timid little thing. She was kind of his Plan B, I guess you could say. Elsha’d been training up in tekanlep, partly so she could kick the guy’s ass. But Ena?” He should his head. “After a few years, she finally grew a spine and murdered her husband. Oh, no one could prove it. Or no one really tried.”

“So...kind of like in that musical “Chicago?”

“He had it comin’, he had it comin’, he only had himself to blame,” Roy sang. “If you had been there, if you had seen it, them maybe you would have done the same.”

Ronnie laughed. “You actually learned to sing!”

He shrugged. “Sort of. The Esiri are really fond of song. It sort of rubs off on you after a while. I had to teach them to dance, though.”

She chortled. “You? Dance?”

“I know, right? Didn’t hurt that no one had any idea that I had no idea what I was doing.”

“That’s something I’d like to have seen.”

Roy glanced over his shoulder. “Ask Elsha to show you our wedding. She keeps a copy of the visual record on her slate.”

“I’ll be sure to ask her.” She paused. “Did you really start a fight at that other wedding?”

He chuckled. “Yup. It wouldn't be an Esirin wedding without someone starting something. Suffice it to say, Iron Rod's rod wasn't very iron-y for a while. Probably had something to do with their low score that night.”

“Do people really listen at the door and score your performance, like in the Olympics?”

“Yup.”

“Damn.” She took a long sip. “Why did you come here, Roy?”

“To Midgard...Earth? Part of the tour. We just happened to have arrived in the middle of a Virini attack and figured we’d get in on the fun.”

“Ha, ha,” said Ronnie flatly.

Roy grinned briefly. “Here to Wyoming? Mainly to find you. Indianapolis is a wasteland now. I had no idea if you’d escaped, or if any of you still lived there at all. So I gambled on this place.”

“You didn’t drop by just to say ‘hi,’ did you?”

Roy sighed. “I came here to apologize. To ask forgiveness. I’d hoped you’d at least think about thinking about it. If you don’t...I also came to find out if you were okay. Because I still care. I was a crappy husband and a crappy father, I had no right to put you through all that, and if I could take it all back, I would. We had a good thing going, didn’t we? And I screwed it up.”

Ronnie’s lips twitched upward in a brief attempt at a smile. She chuckled and shook her head slowly. “Honestly, Roy, I have no idea what we had. Except great sex. You had your problems, probably still do, but that was never one of them. And from the way you and Elsha carry on, I guess it still isn’t.

“What happened, in a nutshell, is that I moved on. We all did. We had to. After you and I yelled at each other through the phone, I spent a week in...I still don’t know how to describe it. Going through all the stages of loss at once. And that was before those Army guys showed up with the news.”

She took another sip. “Did they tell you what they were going to put in that urn?”

Roy shook his head.

She hrmphed. “Figures. Still, it made things a whole lot cleaner, you being dead. Cleaner than a divorce. I was going to file, you know.”

He nodded. “Ya, I kind of figured. In hindsight. The first few weeks away, I had a lot of time to think. Mainly about what I could have and should done differently. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that all the signs were there. I just didn’t see them.”

She grunted assent. “You know the weirdest thing about all this? I should be furious. Absolutely livid. You ran off, left me and the kids, spent close to twenty years living with aliens, shacked up with one and had a kid with her. And you’re obviously _happy_. Happier than you were with me.

“Half the women I know would have slapped you silly in the first five minutes. A few of them would have kicked in you the balls by now. And one would have actually ripped them off...although she’s admittedly a sort of Bitch Queen of the Universe type, but still.

“Am I upset? Yeah, a little. I’d have to be dead inside not to be. But surprisingly, I’m strangely comfortable with it all. Mainly, I think, because I’m happier with Dwayne than I was with you. Even if the sex isn’t as good.”

She grinned.

“But he’s good to me. Treats me like a lady. Better with the kids, too. And I’m not saying that to make you feel like crap. Although if you are...”

“I deserve it,” he cut in.

“No argument here. So, we had your funeral, cashed in your life insurance, got that widow’s pension thing from your job. Sold off a lot of our stuff, too. Garage sale, collectors, antiques dealers, whatever. All that helped. So did your mom.”

“She always liked you.”

“And told me she should have smacked you upside the head sooner. Anyway, we eventually had to sell the house and move. That was at least as tough on the kids as your death. Silvia was too young to really understand. But Toby and Brad sure did. I’m kind of glad it happened that way because a divorce would have been a lot worse. Alimony, child support, custody battle, visitation negotiations.”

She shuddered.

“I know some families who’ve gone through that. It’s not pretty. No, the hardest part of moving was having to leave their friends. The boys were angry with me about that for a while. They made new friends, of course, and eventually got over it.

“At the new place, some bastard broke in one night. Had a gun. Brad snuck up behind him and hit him with a baseball bat. The guy died later that night from that. Dwayne was our nextdoor neighbor at the time. He’d always been polite, and all. But he came running. Toby saw him vault over the back fence like some epic action hero. Dwayne took care of calling Nine-One-One while I sat on a bar stool hyperventilating.

“Brad barely avoided juvie. Dwayne pushed me to buy a gun and learn how to use it.”

“But you hate guns.”

She snorted. “Still do. Dwayne told me that you don’t have to like guns, or believe in God, but when some moron breaks into your house, you’re going to call someone with a gun and pray like hell they get there in time. It's not a popular position these days, but there it is.

“Anyway, I invited him over for dinner a couple of days later. He gave me some advice about how to deal with Brad’s legal issues.”

“He's a lawyer?”

“Ex-Marine. Runs an MMA gym. But he has a lot of experience with the consequences of violence, legal and otherwise. Anyway, we all started spending more and more time together. Two years after that, he proposed, and I said yes.”

“So that’s him in that photo in there?”

She nodded. “He’s a good guy. Kind of a hard-ass sometimes. Pushed the kids harder than I thought he should have on occasion. But he’s been good for me. For all of us. Kids think of him as their dad. He’s why Brad went into the Guard and got his butt straightened out.”

Roy exhaled heavily. “And me, I’m just the guy who got their mom pregnant.”

She grinned. “Well...we did have a lot of fun with that.” She sighed. “Anyway, I should be angry with you. The funny thing is, I’m not. I’m a little sad, mostly. So, yeah, I suppose I’ll forgive you. Don’t expect it to take effect immediately, though.”

“Thanks. That means a lot.” He took a sip. “Does that mean you're serious about that appointment with Ithuna? She _is_ the new mother-in-law, after all.”

Ronnie gestured at Roy. “She does good work. And I'm already getting tired of certain middle-age portents of things to come.”

“In other words, you don't like the idea of getting old.”

She snorted. “Who does?”

He nodded. “Okay, I'll talk to her. You might not like the...inherent obligations.”

“We'll discuss it.”

Roy recognized that tone of finality and changed the subject. “You think Silvia will forgive me?”

Ronnie shrugged. “Beats me. She’s a grown woman, she can make her own decisions. You’ll have to go in there and talk to her.” She took another sip. “I did notice, Roy, that your wife is...um...not very well endowed?”

“That’s an interesting way to put it. But what does that have to do with the price of sursha from Alfhem?”

Ronnie frowned. “They really did a number on you, didn’t they?”

“If you mean, did I go native, maybe a little. And if you mean that Elsha doesn’t have boobs, nei, she doesn’t. No one does. Except for Guthni...barely.” He took a sip. “Still not completely sure how Elsha kept her wedding dress up. ‘Friction,’ she said. And every time I’ve asked, she’s always just smiled.”

Ronnie chuckled. “You know what else is ironic? That I like Elsha. Usually, the former and current wives...don’t get along too well. And that’s often putting it mildly. Oh, they’ll put on a front...most of the time. But beneath that? Pure venom.

“But Elsha? She’s a sweetheart.”

“You haven’t seen her while she's choosing the slain.”

“I suppose I’ll have to take your word for that. And that’s the other thing that makes this all a lot easier to deal with than it should be. You were always a lousy liar.

“And Guthni? She’s adorable. And gorgeous. It's cute the way they roll all their 'R's. And that’s yet another thing. Exes are even more critical of the new kids. Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s never their fault, they were just born. I’m just saying.”

“So what all did I miss? I mean, besides the kids growing up.”

Ronnie thought for a moment. “Disco got worse. Eighties fashion...be glad you missed that. Bad music videos. Ronald Reagan was President.”

“The actor?”

“Uh-huh. And his veep George Bush after that. Guy named Thomas Whitmore's in the hot seat now. We got really close to nuclear war, and then the Iron Curtain fell. In a nutshell.”

A moment later, Silva walked out the door. “Oh, hi, Mom. Father.” Her greeting to him sounded a little strained. “I’ll be back in a minute. Need to check the horses.”

“We kind of just tied them up when we arrived,” said Ronnie. “We saw the door open, and...yeah. But we still need to see to the animals.”

“Elsha showed me the home videos. The seashells...Father's boot to the head...their wedding. Mom, you have to see that. Especially the dancing.” She nearly laughed before stepping off the porch.

Roy nodded. He tipped his mug back and drained the dregs of his coffee. “I’ll be back in a minute or five. And Ronnie? Thanks. For everything. I’d offer to make it all up to you, but...”

“Not possible.”

He grunted. Placing his mug on a small metal table, he stepped off the porch, borrowed slippers crunching on the gravel.

“Roy? Remember, you may be her father, but to her, you’re a total stranger.”

Roy nodded.

He rounded the end of the house toward a detached lean-to. Stacked wedges of split firewood half-filled the lower end. Two horses occupied a space that Roy guessed usually sheltered a vehicle or two. Silvia stood brushing one of the animals, a midnight-black beauty. The other, a slightly smaller palamino, stood patiently nearby. Both flicked their tails absently.

Silvia looked up and smiled weakly. “Hi...Father.”

Roy walked up and stopped a foot or so from her. “Daughter,” he said.

For several moments, neither of them spoke.

“I overheard a little of what you and Mom were saying.” She paused and exhaled heavily. “Did you really have to do it? Go away, I mean. Just when I was starting to get to know you.”

“Your mother said...”

“That I was too young to remember much? Yes and no. I remember being ignored. And talking with Elsha and Guthni, well, they’ve had an entirely different experience. It’s like we were each talking about a different man. Oh, sure, I was almost too young for it to have made much of a difference. But it still bothers me.”

“Your mom says I’m like a stranger to you.”

“She’s right. Dwayne’s my dad. You’re my father. If that makes any sense. When you hugged me in there...it felt...I don’t know. Strange and familiar at the same time. I thought I’d accepted your death. And now you just show up. Why?”

“I had to know if you were okay. You’re still my little girl. And if you never want to see me again after today...sure, it’ll hurt, but I suppose I can live with that.

“Can I pick up where we left off?” He shook his head. “Not possible. I’ve missed far too much. Can we have some sort of relationship? Ya, I was hoping so. But if I have to go away with nothing more than the knowledge that you’re alive and well, I’ll have to make that be enough. I hope you’ll understand when you’re a parent yourself.”

Silvia sighed heavily. “No, Father, I don’t want you to go away. I don’t know if I’ll be able to call you ‘Dad,’ but I would like to call you. As soon as they get the phones working. Or if your Esiri friends lend us their Star Trek communicators or whatever. As for being a parent...” She rubbed a palm on her belly.

“Wh...really? But...”

“Don’t start,” she interrupted. “Dad already gave me an ass-chewing over it.”

Roy exhaled through his nose. “And your mother just told me that you’re a grown woman and can make your own decisions.”

“She’s right. Still, I wonder what kind of world she...or he...is going to grow up in, what with all this invasion stuff.”

“Well,” he said pensively, “your sister grew up being the only girl on her whole planet with any hair.”

Silvia eyed him for what felt like forever. “I’ll tell you what,” she said at length. “I’ll start talking if you start brushing.” She held out a brush like the one she’d been using on her horse.

Roy took it tentatively, then looked at the other horse. “I take it there’s a right and wrong way to do this?”

She nodded. “Just do what I do. It’s not hard.” She returned to brushing the horse. After watching for a few moments, Roy began on the dappled one.

“Like this?” he asked.

She nodded. “So...”

Her horse nickered, then tossed its head and stamped impatiently. A moment later, his started in.

Silvia ran a hand down her horse’s snout. “Shh,” she soothed. “What’s up?”

Roy stepped back as his snorted unhappily and tried to bite him.

“They’re not usually like this,” she said.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“I wonder...what’s that sound?”

Roy craned his ears. He thought he heard a sort of humming growl. A moment later, Elsha yelled from from around the corner. “Roi! Virini!”

“Dritt,” he growled. “Silvia, come with me. And hug the house.”

“But...”

“Just do it!” Then, “We are on the way,” he called in Esirin.

He darted across the space between the lean-to, flattening himself against the house, then rounded the corner, keeping under the eaves, and one eye on the part of the sky he could see as the droning sound rose.

“Father?” said Silvia.

“If they see us, we’re all dead.”

“They're ones who invaded, right?”

“Ya.” He darted from the eaves to the porch, taking the steps in one bound, Siliva right behind him.

Elsha met him and together they tried to peer up at the sky. “What do you think?” he asked.

“That way,” she said, pointing north. “Heading that way.” She pointed east. “Descending trajectory.”

“Dritt,” he said. “They’re going to land.”

“Roy?” said Ronnie, stepping back out of the house. “What’s going on?”

“Virinin landing party. Everyone, inside. We’re going Situational.” He scooped up his BDU gear and followed the others into the house.

“What do you mean, ‘Situational?’” Ronnie demanded.

“It means that if they know we're here, they'll slag the place.”

“Did our living room just become a war room?” Silvia asked.

“Ya,” said Elsha. She stepped up to the dining table where she and Guthni pulled aside the chairs. “Here is the situation. A Virini troop transport will soon land over there.” She pointed eastward. “From the sound of it, I would say it is Utgarth-class.”

“Ouch,” said Roy. “It had to be one of the big ones,” he said darkly.

“What does that mean?” Silvia asked.

“It means,” said Guthni, “that we are faced with one thousand borgarmadi...”

“Shock troops,” Roy translated.

“...thirteen plasma turrets, and twenty-seven armored assault vehicles armed with pu-thirty-six explosive space modulators.”

Silvia cussed.

“Watch your language, young lady,” Roy said.

“Sorry,” she muttered back.

“So what do we do?” Ronnie asked.

“Well,” said Roy, “we could call in air support.”

“Or,” said Guthni with a grin, “we could slag that entire area with a single brilliantly-conceived and perfectly-timed operation.”

“That’s my girl!” Roy exclaimed.

Guthni beamed back at him.

“Um,” said Silvia, “you said there are a thousand of them. And only five of us.”

“That is a good point,” said Elsha. “We bring standard BDU load-out.”

“Which is what?” Ronnie asked.

“Each of us carries three-quarters unobtanium battle armor, dynamic camouflage, seaxe, broadsword, force-lance with two spare power cells, lyos-sferth, pulse pistol, and five thermal detonators. Our fighters are equipped with shield disruptors, particle-beam cannons, rail-guns, standard countermeasures, as well as high-impact and tesseract warheads.”

“Geez,” said Silva, “I thought you were coming to visit, not lay siege to the place.”

“I just get excitable as to choice,” said Roy.

“Fft!” said Elsha. “It is regulation standard equipment."

"What's a...los...what?"

"Lyos-sferth," said Elsha. "Light-sword."

"You don't say."

"Think of it as a laser-sword," said Roy.

"What do you bring?” Elsha asked Ronnie.

Ronnie thought for a moment. “Remington with two spare clips. Silvia has a pair of Smith-and-Wessons with three clips each. A pair of twenty-two rifles on the saddlebag and two squares of ammo. Here, we have a pair of thirty-ought-sixes, sixty rounds for each. Two twelve-gauges, fifty shells each. Two compound bows and about fifty arrows for them. A couple dozen grenades. And a case of dynamite.”

“And the surplus,” Silvia added.

“Yeah, but we don’t know if it’s any good. Dwayne picked it up here and there.”

“He’s one of those Prepper types.”

“Prepper?” said Roy.

“You know, people who are always preparing for when the...crap...hits the fan.”

Roy nodded with a grunt. “If it can explode, we can use it.”

Ronnie sighed. “I was really hoping I'd never have to use any of that stuff. Honestly, Roy, I don't know if I can shoot one of these Virini. The biggest thing I've ever shot was a squirrel.”

“What is this skwirl you speak of?” Elsha asked.

Ronnie stepped over to a bookshelf, pulled a filed guide, and opened it to a photo of a squirrel.

“That is adorable,” said Elsha. “Why would you kill such a creature?”

“Because it kept digging up the vegetable garden,” Ronnie growled. “I'm this close to escalating to deer. But Virini...”

“Perhaps this will help.” Elsha pulled a holographic emitter from her pouch, set it on the floor, and tapped at her slate. “I will show it in actual size.”

A moment later, an image of a Virinu in full biomechanical assault gear flickered into simulated life, towering over them like a crustacean Goliath.

Ronnie and Silvia both jumped back and shrieked. “Okay,” said Ronnie breathlessly, eyes wide, “I can shoot that. No problem.”

“Do you have a map of the area?” Elsha asked.

“Yeah,” said Ronnie. She stepped over to the bookshelf and pulled out a thick, folded piece of paper, and spread it out on the table. “We are here,” she said, pointing to a spot on the map. You said the...Virini...should land somewhere over here?” She gestured at a space on the map to the east.

Elsha peered at the map. “I would say...here.” She pointed.

“Yeah, I think you’re right. It’s the largest, flattest spot for miles around.”

“Why here?” Silvia asked. “I mean, there’s nothing but cows, and that’s only when the ranchers herd them up here.”

“That is always the question,” said Elsha. “They probably mean to establish a base here.”

“But didn’t we...I mean, us and you…kick their butts?” Silvia asked.

Elsha sighed. “We did. But the Virini are incredibly stupid about some things.”

“It’s one of those mixed blessings,” said Roy. “It means we can outsmart them at least as often as not.”

“But we're still going to have to MacGyver something together, right?” said Ronnie.

“Mak-gaivr?” said Elsha.

“I'll explain later.”

“So,” said Roy, “what do we think? Wudshuk Plan Eighty-Seven?”

Guthni made a pensive sound and said, “How about this...”

* * *

Silvia lay prone behind an obliging screen of manzanita, its brick-red branching trunk supplying a convenient prop for her thirty-ought-six. Behind her lay her pack, half-filled with spare ammo and a few grenades. Beside that lay a twenty-two rifle, a twelve-gauge, double-barreled shotgun, and her forty-five-pound draw compound bow. On a rock beside her sat an open box of thirty-ought-six rounds.

She chambered one. At a distance of nearly a half mile, she didn’t need to worry about small movements, or small sounds. For that matter, she wouldn’t even have to worry about stepping on a twig. The glint of sunlight on the lens of a spotting scope, on the other hand, was risky.

She glanced at the large rock still casting late afternoon shadow over her, then gazed across the open ground to a similar rock where Mom lay, and to an even larger pile of rocks where Guthni prepared her part of the operation.  


Her sister. Her weird half-alien half-sister. She blew air out between her lips. _My father's Captain effing Kirk,_ she thought. She supposed it was a good thing she actually liked Guthni, all things considered.

She peered through her scope at the Virinin ship disgorging its contents. Geez, those things are even uglier in person!

From what Elsha had said about them, their biology shared a few things with Earth’s bees and ants. A handful of queens, all female of course, laid eggs, fertilized by a small army of male drones. But all the others were genderless. Which was just as well, because Silvia couldn’t fathom how the Virini could stand to touch each other, let alone mate. To paraphrase Elsha, no wonder they were cranky all the time. Silvia would be cranky, too, if she were stuck in that position.

But she also agreed with Elsha that being cranky about one’s genetic predicament didn’t give one the right to go about exterminating other races.

Silvia exhaled heavily, trying to ignore the fact that those were sentient beings down there. Sentient beings she, along with her family and Roy’s, and hopefully Dad and his backup, were about to kill.

She slowly panned back and forth, keeping one eye on the scope, and the other open for the wide-angle view.

Some of the Virini had lined up in blocks, while others moved various pieces of mysterious gear from their landing craft. Elsha had said during their planning session that the Virini typically employed siege machinery. While Silvia could have identified something like a catapult, Virini weapons of war apparently resembled nothing she’d ever seen before. Fortunately, they weren’t her concern. That was to be left to the demolitions experts.

She rolled her eyes inwardly at that. Their demolitions experts consisted of her father, his alien wife, and their seventeen-year-old daughter. At first, Mom had thought they’d been joking, but the way Guthni had practically drooled over the case of unstable dynamite Dad kept in the utility shed had given her pause.

Guthni had insisted on carrying the whole thing herself over a bit more than a mile of ponderosa pine forest using nothing but the length of rope to be used to sling the stuff at the enemy. Mom had been adamantly opposed to the idea of even touching it, let along trying to use it.

But Elsha had been just as adamant. So Mom had stood about as far back as she could, which amounted to the other side of the property, while the three of them had tied it up, and Guthni had set off at an easy lope. Silvia had been waiting for the explosion ever since.

She almost saw something sail through the air above the Virini, arcing from somewhere near Guthni's rock. But at that distance, she couldn’t be sure.

She saw the fireball a second before she heard it. An orange globe blossomed out of the ground beside the ship, then abruptly blew out sideways before mushrooming up like a miniature nuclear blast.

A moment later, the blast wave hit her like a sledge hammer. BA-DA-DOOM! Two, or possibly three, distinct explosions. Elsha had been right about that, too. Fifty pounds of TNT could not have produced an explosion of that magnitude. But it could, she’d said, trigger the detonation of some of the Virninin ordnance, which would burn hot enough to cleave the water in the air and ground, which would then also explode.

As expected, the opening move sent the Virini into complete chaos.

Silvia drew a bead on one of them, drew a breath, then let it out slowly, squeezing the trigger, just as Dad had taught her. CRACK! A moment later, the Virinu she’d targeted dropped. She ejected the spent shell and chambered another round. CRACK! Another down.

In between her own shots, the sounds of others echoed around the valley. She saw another two drop, Mom's work. For good or ill, Mom had grown far less squeamish about killing things.

Mom had been opposed to it, adamantly so. She and Dad had nearly come to blows over it. They’d eventually negotiated a truce of sorts, agreeing that if it has a name, or it’s cute, you don’t get to shoot it. She’d relented over squirrels after one had destroyed part of her garden one year, and was close to lifting the ban on deer for the same reason.

The upshot was that a dozen Virini had been shot by her and Mom in about as many minutes. The best part was that the creatures seemed completely unable to determine who was shooting at them and from where. Which was, of course, the point.

BARROOM! Another explosion rocked the valley. Much smaller than the first, it still tossed a score of Virini into the air. Probably one of those thermal detonators.

BARROOM! There was another.

She continued firing. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

* * *

Dwayne Johnson braked to a halt in front of his cabin. Well, his wife’s cabin, technically, inherited from her father. He hadn’t sweated the details. He cut the engine and stepped out of his Dodge Ram as three other trucks pulled into the cabin’s driveway. He immediately spotted the pair of horses shuffling restlessly beneath the lean-to car port.

“Where'd it go?” said Joe.

“That way.” Dwayne pointed eastward.

Something exploded in the distance, shaking the ground slightly. In its wake, the distinctive staccato crack of gunfire began. Then a couple more smaller explosions.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” he said.

“Sarge!” called Kenny from his Honda. “Want me to go and check it out?”

Dwayne considered that for a moment. “Sure. But Kenny? Keep your head down, okay?”

“Hey, Sarge, it’s me!”

“I know. That’s why I said it.” After a moment. “And Kenny? Do _not_ engage the enemy. The moment you have enough intel, get your ass back here.”

“Yes, _sir!_ ” Kenny saluted, slid his helmet visor down, and gunned his Honda up the dirt track toward the east.

Dwayne blew air out through his lips. With the enemy somewhere around a mile away, it was going to take Kenny at least three minutes to get there and another three to get back. Worse, that Honda of his was loud enough to wake the dead. The enemy would easily hear him coming. But he was also the fastest guy on two wheels.

Dwayne groaned under his breath. The men with him were good guys, and mostly ex-military like him. But sometimes he wondered about them. They took some things a little too seriously. Like the chain of command. Sure, he had the personality for it. Otherwise, he never would have spent ten years as a drill instructor for Marine Basic Training. And sure, the United States was unequivocally at war—total war, no less.

It also didn’t help that most of these guys were preppers. On the other hand, maybe it did help. Because it was going to take men like them to help the American people survive. That was the proverbial party line, anyway.

It even had the virtue of being more or less true. In a country with just-in-time delivery, microwaveable everything, and a blossoming e-commerce industry, Americans had grown soft. In short, the average American had very little idea how to make it off the grid. And ever since the aliens had attacked, the whole country had, in very short order, dropped off the grid.

“Sarge? You want me to see to the horses?”

Dwayne nodded. “Good idea, yeah.”

He turned toward the other vehicles idling their engines. “Okay, guys,” he said, “if anyone has to pee, now would be the best time.” That got a laugh. Which was just as well.

“We’re not going to attack?”

Dwayne shot him a look. “Nah, we’re going to play cards and do each other’s nails. Or course we’re going to attack! But we need a plan.”

“We have a plan, Sarge,” said Rick Hollander from his quadrunner, “attack!”

“Not until we have some intel,” Dwayne insisted. “If we barge over that bump, we could walk right into a killing ground. And I don’t know about the rest of you, but I seem to remember that the idea is not to give our lives for our country, but to make the other guy give his life for his!”

That brought a few whoops. Well, he’d give these guys points for enthusiasm, hands down. Several of them weren’t what he would call foreward-thinking, and a couple of them, truth be told, had rocks between their ears. What Dwayne once heard is father refer to as “Old-school Army.”

He rubbed his jaw pensively. The staccato pop-pop-pop of distant rifle fire blended with the occasional explosion, and something else Dwayne couldn’t identify.

“Okay, here’s the plan,” he said. “The enemy are shooting it out with someone over that rise.”

“Shooting it out with who?”

“Someone who knows the terrain. Someone...” He glanced over at the horses. “Guys, get your gear set, I’ll be back in a minute.”

Dwayne jogged across the gravel and onto the porch. The front doorknob turned easily. “Ronnie?” he called, stepping inside. “Ronnie!” There was no answer. He paused beside the kitchen table.

A map lay on it, with marks and strange writing made with colored pencil. Dwayne could make neither heads nor tails of the various markings drawn on the topo map of the area. The two sheets of paper on the table beside it, on the other hand, were crystal clear.

One was a note from his wife.

The other was a pencil drawing of what might have been a demon. The drawing skill was pretty good, though the subject was horrific. Words had been written on it in English and in what looked like Norse runes. Three words, to be exact: “Virini Target Areas.” In his wife’s handwriting.

Dwayne picked up a sheet of yellow legal pad, partially filled with is wife’s flowing script. He it line for line, then read it again.

Dwayne, honey. First, keep your head on. Second, you and the guys...and gals...are part of our ‘brilliantly conceived and perfectly timed operation.’ So pay attention.  
The map on the table shows what we’re doing. Yeah, I know the notations are weird, just pretend it's a football play and it should be clear enough. Silvia and I will be the two in Mossy Oak.  
The drawing shows the target. The enemy, Virini. No, it's not Italian. Yes, they’re that ugly. I saw...photos.  
They have a hive mentality.  
Yes, we’re in cammo. Yes, we brought all the...toys. You have your own anyway.  
Remember, few battle plans survive first contact with the enemy, so get your ass over here already!

“Oh, no, she didn’t,” he said. He opened the gun locker, and found it empty. He swore under his breath, thankful he kept some of his equipment in the Ram. Dwayne cursed again, grabbed the paper, and sprinted back outside.

* * *

Silvia presently became aware of a buzzing sound, faint at first, then growing louder. It sounded like a small engine. Its source caught her attention from the west.

Someone on a candy-apple red motorcycle and a red flannel rode into view, cresting the rise, then pulled up short of the cattle gate where the Jeep track crossed the barbed wire fence. The rider pushed up a visor.

She couldn’t identify the face from that distance, but there was only one person she knew who hung out with Dad, rode a red Honda, and wore that tacky-looking flannel. Kenny Rogers.

Moments later, something green shot out from somewhere near the Virinin ship, and struck the Honda. The whole thing went up in a fireball.

Silvia's mouth dropped open. She blinked, trying desperately to process what she'd seen. At length, she clenched her jaw. “Oh, you _bastards!_ ” she spat. “You killed Kenny!”

He'd been like a brother to her, despite that he'd asked her out repeatedly. If it hadn't been personal before, it damned well was now! She turned back toward the Virini and shaved several more seconds off her reload.

As expected, the Virini began to fan out. She eyed the two sticks of dynamite shoved into the duff, arrows rammed up their cores. It was about that time.

She squeezed off another half-dozen rounds before scooping up her weapons and taking her bow in hand. She nocked an arrow before flicking a Bic lighter to a fuse. It caught immediately. She drew and loosed, barely bothering to aim at all, repeating the process before the first had hit.

BLAM! BLAM! A moment later, two of Mom's went off on the other side of the field.

She scooted back into the trees and dashed thirty yards to her next position. As promised, the Virini opened fire on where she'd just been.

“Okay, you alien assholes,” she growled, “second verse, same as the first, a little bit louder, and a little bit worse!”

* * *

Dwayne pulled his truck up just shy of the cattle fence running along the crest. Smoke rose from a fresh brush fire a couple of yards from the edge of the Jeep track. Some of it came from sagebrush and bunch grasses, some of it from the wreckage of Kenny’s motorcycle. He looked away. He could do the CSI Wyoming thing later.

He had more pressing concerns. Fires, increasing in size and number by the moment, posed a persistent threat. Not just from the destruction of Kenny and his ride, but from the occasional explosion in the vicinity of the enemy ship and the exchange of what looked like two different kinds of energy weapons—green blobs from the enemy, and off-white balls from, apparently, his allies.

The most immediate threat, of course, was the horde of Virini. How Ronnie had known that, Dwayne couldn’t be sure. Perhaps she’d been visited by an enemy of these Virini. He could, however, be sure that they could be killed, if for no other reason than that even at half a mile, he could see them dropping one by one.

Another grenade...no, thermal detonator, whatever that was...went off somewhere between him and the ship. That made, what, four? Five of those things?

“Sarge! Was that…?”

“Kenny, yeah.”

Dave slapped a clip into his AK-47. “Bastards!” he snarled. He raised his weapon and squeezed the trigger. BARRRAAAAP!

“Dammit, Dave, stop it with the spray-and-pray!”

“But, Sarge...”

“Not until we’re in range! I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”

A green blob shot out from somewhere behind the Virini troop mass and struck Bill’s Ranger. The vehicle shuddered for a moment before exploding. Its shell leaped upward, hung there for a moment before crashing back down.

“Back, back, back!” he yelled, throwing his Ram into reverse and gunning it back down the slope. Once out of line-of-sight of the Virini, he jumped out, securing amber-tinted safety glasses.

“Bill!” he yelled.

“Yeah!?” Bill yelled back, from the bed of Dave’s Chevy.

Dwayne exhaled with relief. The last thing he needed was a daughter widowed before she was even married.

“You got that RPG?”

“No, it blew up with the truck!”

Dwayne cocked a thumb. “Grab mine. Okay, guys and gals, positions!”

He led the way back to the crest in a crouch, then crawled the last several yards, all those years of basic training coming back to him just like riding a bike.

He swung his own AR-15 into position, checked it yet again, sighted one of the Virini, then squeezed the trigger. POP-POP-POP! POP-POP-POP! POP-POP-POP!

As the ringing subsided, he heard the other guys doing the same, the air filling with the sounds of popcorn gunfire.

BA-DA-DOOM! Another grenade went off, immediately followed by a second larger explosion and then a third smaller one. The shock wave hit him in the face, strong enough to kick up some dust and even disturb the smoke and fire rising from the destroyed vehicles.

A sixth exploded, then a seventh and eighth, if he’d been counting accurately. The RPG fired, trailing fire and smoke as it streaked toward the Virini, exploding nicely, just like in the movies. From that distance, Dwayne couldn’t tell what it hit, but it sure sounded bigger than the RPG alone.

Down the line in the other direction, Mike stood up with their third RPG, and let it off. He let out a whoop as it hit and exploded.

“Mike, ya fool,” Kim shrieked, “get down!”

A bit of green stuff hit Mike, most of his body disintegrating into a cloud of grey dust.

Kim screamed, but only for a few moments before turning around and opening up with an M-60. THUM-A-THUM-A-THUM-THUM-A-THUM…!

Anger was a weapon only to one’s opponent, but Dwayne would pit a sister’s wrath against that any day.

More green stuff zipped past overhead, some of it closely enough to singe the hair on his head.

Another grenade went off, then another, and all through it, the steady popcorn sounds of gunfire. And for a few moments, he was back in Somalia. A change of the timbre of weapons fire brought him back moments later.

Something producing a staccato hissing sound cut through the other noise, followed shortly by a somewhat less staccato, but lower-pitched, hissing sound.

* * *

Silvia squeezed off the last of her first box of thirty-ought-six rounds. With the enemy finally on the move, she found herself with an increasing number of profile shots. Which weren’t consistent with the Aim-Small-Miss-Small approach to choosing targets.

She switched back to the twenty-two and squeezed off another dozen rounds at the Virini firing on Mom's position. Only a few produced disabling wounds. She let off several more for good measure before another thermal detonator went off in the middle of that same formation.

“Yes!” she growled.

She collected what spent shells she could readily find into a small ditty bag and slowly backed out from her position, pausing to lob two more sticks of dynamite.

Somewhere to her right, someone opened up with a machine gun. THUM-A-THUM-A-THUM-THUM-A-THUM…! She grinned as the front rank of Virini fell. “Eat that, mother...” The rest of her words were swallowed up by another thermal detonator amid the formation firing on Roy and Elsha’s position.

Some of the Virini managed to navigate around the TD-gouged trenching, while a few others blundered right into it. Even barring injuries, that was going to slow those ones down.

When she was satisfied with the five yards of manzanita and buck brush scrub between herself and the field of battle, she trotted toward the left, counting down the distance. Ten yards...twenty...fifty.

She returned to a crouch, and then dropped to her belly to crawl back toward the edge beneath the shrubbery.

* * *

Dwayne risked poking his head up higher. Across the way, many of the Virini had turned their attention to the two rocky knobs flanking the valley. Yellow-white flecks hissed out from somewhere behind the rocks, striking the Virini. The Virini returned fire with their greenish blobs striking the rocks and the vegetation around them.

A pine trunk shattered, the tree falling down the slope, impacting with an audible BOOM that briefly shook the ground. Soon, the air around both knobs filled up with dust from pulverized rock and tree bark, and smoke from freshly-ignited fires. But the exchange of fire continued. Even from that distance, Dwayne could see that the source of the yellow-white kept shifting. Clearly whoever was firing them—probably his wife’s friends—was moving around. A tactically sound move, especially considering the destructive potential of the Virini weapons.

Another grenade went off, then another, both close to the edges the mass of enemy troops. Still the exchange of fire continued and still he and his people continued to unload. Man, those things did _not_ give up!

Were they really going to just sit here shooting it out until one side or the other was dead? He had to admit, it looked likely. Except that roughly half the enemy was still coming directly at him. Which meant they were going to have to move and at a distance of four hundred yards and closing, that was going to be soon.

In the meantime, they’d have to keep plugging away. Kim’s M-60 stopped. Dwayne glanced over to see her frantically loading a new belt, slapping the weapon’s parts a little harder than was probably necessary. But she was pissed as hell and he wasn’t about to get in her way.

* * *

Back at the edge of the field, and closer to the cattle fence, Silvia had a somewhat better view of that end of the field. It looked like...yes, she saw through her scope, there was Dad, front and center as usual.

A couple of yards from him, there was Kim laying on her belly, pumping out rounds from...probably an M-60.

And marching toward them was the slowly dwindling mass of Virini soldiers. Once more in a position to hit more of them from the front, she squeezed off more rounds with the thirty-ought-six, aiming a little back, at the ones Kim probably wouldn’t hit. One by one, Virini dropped.

Geez, it was almost like watching some of that old footage from the First World War. The ones showing soldiers charging out of a trench, only to be cut down by machine-gun fire.

From what she recalled of Dad's too-frequent tirades on the subject, that had been an era in which old-school tactics hadn’t kept pace with the development of weapons technology. The idea had still been to overwhelm the enemy with superior numbers.

Either the Virini also followed that approach, or they didn’t know how to deal with all-but-invisible bullets when deprived of their shielding technology. Elsha had suggested that it was probably both.

Which made a certain amount of sense if one looked at it from that perspective. The enemy still had at least five hundred troops and three of their explosive space modulators.

BA-DA-DOOM!

Nope, make that two. But on her side, they were down to maybe a half-dozen thermal detonators. She’d fired more than half of her ammo, probably a little more than Mom. Two people had been killed. Which meant there were twenty of her people, and at least five hundred of the enemy.

She cussed and tried to speed up her rate of fire. She recalled something about three rounds per minute in the days of muzzle-loaders. She could get off one round per second on a good day. Which meant that in the last ten minutes—she’d done the math while changing locations—she and Mom had fired, at most, six hundred rounds. Though from the look of things, it couldn’t have been much more than half that.

Still, three hundred rounds plus the damage done by explosives, plus what Dad and his people were dishing out, they just might pull this off.

Silvia kept firing, and Virini kept falling. Then she felt an icy chill run down her spine.

The Virini suddenly let out a coarse war cry and broke into what she could only describe as a slow trot. If their awkward, lurching gait could be called that. But they were definitely picking up speed.

She cussed some more, abandoning all pretense at shot accuracy. She fired as fast as she possibly could, fumbling a few rounds in the process, and just aiming at the mass as a whole. She switched to the shotgun, and just blasted in the general direction of the Virini mass swarming toward her dad and fiance.

After twenty shots, she dumped her pack out, scooped up a grenade, yanked the pin, and heaved it as hard as she could. Years at track-and-field in high school and college paid off. It landed a yard from the nearest Virinu, and exploded, tossing dirt and brush into the air. A few Virini fell. Almost before she knew it, she'd tossed all six of her grenades.

She frantically shoved all her remaining ammo into her pack, and lobbed three more sticks of dynamite before scooping up the three rifles and crashing out of the brush, and sprinting in the direction of the cattle fence.

* * *

Dwayne let out a curse. “Fall back!” he bellowed, then bellowed it again.

He rocked back on his heels, slammed a spare clip into his weapon, and let off a few more bursts. Behind the falling front ranks of Virini, their comrades picked up the pace into a light run.

“Kim!” he called. “Get your ass up out of that dirt!”

She replied in a string of profanity. A blob of green cut the air just above her head. She cursed some more, then slithered backward, dragging her weapon and what was left of its ammo with her.

Little light balls continued to shoot out from three ever-changing locations in the underbrush and the Virini continued shooting back, their numbers steadily dwindling.

A pair of figures in Duck-Blind Mossy-Oak slipped out of the brush, one on either side of the field of combat, both with packs and juggling three rifles and a compound bow. They both unslung a rifle and let off several rounds, one of them with a double-barreled shotgun, the other with a twenty-two.

His wife and daughter ran with a crouched, serpentine motion, always moving, always presenting a changing target to the enemy. Smart move, he thought wryly, wonder where they learned it.

Moments later, three other figures emerged, two from the north, and one from the south. At first, Dwayne couldn’t be sure they were there at all. He’d mostly noticed the motion at first, and then bits of dull, almost charcoal-dark metal that stood out from the forest background. But the rest of them kept shifting on him, as though his vision slid away each time he tried to look.

The little light balls shot out from them, and the green blobs slammed back in return. Dwayne did a double-take. Why weren’t they being disintegrated? Most of the return fire caught on what looked like three-foot round shields, though it was hard to tell from that angle. For whatever reason, the Virini weapons had no effect on whatever the newcomers employed as armor.

The light balls ceased briefly. In their place, a trio of three-foot-long beams of pulsing blue-ish light hissed into life with a FSH-ing sound he'd swear he'd heard somewhere. They let out a staggered war cry.

“ _AS-GARD-AM-BITH!_ ”

Without skipping a beat, they laid into the Virini with a savagery he’d rarely seen. The light flickered back and forth like swords, humming malevolently as they cut through the Virini like they weren’t even there. Puffs of steam and smoke, the loss of body parts, and horrible screaming marked the passage of those blades.

“Holy crap!” said Bill.

“No kidding,” Dwayne replied. “Well, don’t just stand there, boys and girls, keep shooting!” He opened back up with his weapon, emptying his clip in less than a minute. He pulled a grenade from his belt, yanked the pin, then hurled it into the midst of the enemy. Moments later, it exploded.

One of the camouflaged figures stumbled over something and went down on her butt, rifles flying.

The lone shield-bearer backed up away from the Virini in a fighting retreat. The Virini fired at it vainly. Some of their shots went wide. Others hit the shield ineffectually. A few hit the light-sword and bounced, sometimes at some seemingly random angle, others right back toward the source, hitting the Virini themselves and turning them to ash. The shield-bearer knelt beside the camouflaged woman and said something Dwayne couldn’t quite hear over the din of battle.

Moments later, the woman got to her knees, retrieved her rifles, and began firing back from behind the cover of the shield. Together, they worked their way back and toward the center, the woman firing her shotgun, the shield-bearer deflecting that green stuff.

Every time it looked like they were about to be overwhelmed, the shield-bearer zipped the light-sword around a little, or bashed with the shield, giving the pair just enough breathing room.

To Dwayne’s left, the other two shield-bearers stood almost back-to back, carving up the Virini in a complicated-looking dance of whirling death like something out of a martial arts movie gone horribly, yet beautifully wrong.

“Skyald-margh!” the taller one bellowed.

It raised its...her...shield, a good yard in diameter, and crouched behind it. The other two did the same, overlapping their own shields. They continued to unleash fire upon the enemy and the enemy continued to fire back.

Screams rose into the air. Though of pain or rage, Dwayne couldn’t tell.

The shield-wielders held their ground. The enemy tried to flank them. Their edges kept whittling away from gunfire still coming from the forest margins and from his own guys.

He raised his own weapon. CRACK-CRACK-CRACK! CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

Beside him, Leroy let loose. BARRRRAAAAAAPPPP!

“Okay, Leroy, fine! You can spray-and-pray! But if you run out of ammo...”

Leroy answered with another BARRRRAAAAAAPPPP!

“So help me if I don’t knock a couple teeth out of that boy,” Dwayne grumbled.

The women finally pulled out pistols, evidently having run out of rifle ammo, and began firing at the Virini from behind the shields.

At one point, Kim finally ran out of ammo for the M-60, her Beretta, and her AK-47. She pulled her Bowie knife and machete, shrieked at the top of her lungs, and charged.

In a few long strides, she slammed into the nearest Virini, cutting and chopping with a savagery that made Dwayne’s balls curl up inside his body.

He cursed, re-aimed, and covered her.

* * *

Dwayne couldn't quite tell when the battle was over. Just that the sun's long shadows stretched out by the time the Virini had stopped firing.

Dwayne crushed Ronnie and Silvia to him, fighting back tears. “I thought I’d lost you,” he choked.

“We were doing fine,” said Silva.

“No we weren’t,” said Ronnie.

A moment later, Silvia said, “I can’t breathe, Dad.”

Dwayne released them. “Sorry,” he said.

He looked past them to the carnage. Virini lay strewn upon the ground clear back to their ship. A few of them still moved. Kim crouched over one, hacking at it repeatedly and screaming at it.

Two of the three strangers picked their way across the field, occasionally firing one of their light-ball weapons at the ground. Every so often, a brief exchange of fire erupted. Little by little, the moaning screech—or maybe it was a screeching moan—lessened.

Plumes of smoke, some of them no more substantial than a briquette barbecue, others rapidly growing into one of the season’s first wildfires, rose from dozens of places around the field, the smoke drifting away eastward.

Most of his own people had made it through with little more than scrapes and a few singed hairs or first-degree burns. Four of them—Jenny Jorgensen, Matt Winslow, Chris Davies, and James Markoe—had lost parts of limbs, the stumps cauterized by Virini weapons fire. Two more—Jacob Wolf, and Clint Evans—had been killed. Five—Pete Thornton, Glenn Goulie, Molly Malone, John Valbonesi, and Charlene McKeon—had suffered close calls in the form of third-degree burns various parts of the body.

He looked back at their faces. He saw something there that, somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew would haunt all three of them for some time. It was the same hardened look he'd seen in the eyes of every combat veteran he'd ever known. Hell, it looked back at him from the mirror every day.

“And now I have to break the news to a few new widows,” he said, trying to change the subject.

“Would you care for assistance?” said a distinctly female voice, accented in something that sounded like Minnesotan and German.

“Nah,” he said, turning to the speaker, “I can...” His voice caught in his throat. The person standing in front of him, one of the shield-bearers, was obviously not human.

“I have done this before, Dwein Moanason. Many more times than I or anyone would like.”

“Uh...okay?”

She, and Dwayne presumed it to be a she, looked at his family, then thumped right hand across chest. “Ronda and Silvia, you fought with skill and valor. I salute you.”

“How do you...” Dwayne began.

Ronnie chuckled. “Thanks, Elsha. I think.”

“It sucked,” said Silvia.

Ronnie grimaced.

“Honey?” said Dwayne. “You know this...”

“Esira,” said Ronnie.

“It is not yet over,” said Elsha.

“It's not?” said Dwayne.

Elsha shook her head and nodded toward the field. “So long as Virini still draw breath, we are not finished.”

“Maybe we should take a prisoner or two,” he suggested.

Elsha blinked at him the way a deer blinked at an oncoming truck. “Why?”

“Information?”

Elsha snorted. “Tell me, Dwein, how long you have fought the Virini.”

“A couple of hours?”

“I have been fighting them as long as I can remember. Trust me when I tell you that by the time we could pry anything useful out of one of them, we would already have learned it elsewhere. Nei, we must simply eliminate them. Then the clean-up.”

Dwayne took a deep breath, nearly choking on the stench. “Do they always smell that bad?”

“Ya,” she said, “they do.”

He flinched. “Well, then let's get to it.”


	8. Chapter 8

Brad Neary stepped out of the helicopter that had transported him from a C-130 parked at the Gillette-Campbell County Airport, to the patch of ground between the Devil’s Tower KOA and the Belle Fourche River.

He’d never seen such chaos. The KOA had probably already been full for Independence Day weekend. In addition to the usual camper load, it seemed that every available patch of lawn had a tent on it, every available bit of gravel a vehicle of some sort, with some amount of overlap.

Across Hwy. 110, more cars and campers had set up on dusty sand and gravel. And just east of the KOA, a whole town of tents and lean-tos tied to cars sprawled nearly as far as Hwy. 24. In short, the little dot-on-the map serving Devil’s Tower National Monument had grown by an order of magnitude practically overnight.

He was almost glad not to have the job being their babysitter. A Lieutenant met him with the usual military brusqueness, and escorted him to a waiting Jeep, which promptly ground out of the makeshift base sandwiched between the KOA and the river.

The road hugged the space between the river and a steeply rising bank. After a few broad turns, the road veered away from the river to head upslope. After another twenty minutes or so, the road curved around again, climbed briefly one last time before arriving at what was signed as the Devil’s Tower Visitor Center.

* * *

Ronnie gazed up at the ship slowly descending over Devil’s Tower. It was hard to gauge its size from that angle, but it sure looked smaller than what she’d been told was a Virini Surt-class vessel. Still, it looked several times larger than the volcanic plug looming over them.

The activity around her had turned downright frenetic even the moment the ship had first been spotted, when it had appeared no larger than a quarter.

People ran about all over the place, some of them cursing under their breaths, others shouting commands.

A Jeep pulled up just inside her peripheral vision.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” said a very familiar voice, “can you tell me where to find the President?”

Ronnie pried her gaze off of the ship. “Toby!” She took the few steps toward the vehicle and gave him a hug. “What are you doing here?”

“They found me out on the highway trying to MacGyver a solution to a busted head gasket. They needed a couple of extra hands in the motor pool, so they offered me a job. They said they can’t exactly pay me, though.”

The Jeep’s passenger leaned forward. “Basically, we drafted him.”

“Brad!” Ronnie walked around to the other side and gave him a hug, too. “Boy, am I glad to see you both.”

“Have you seen Silvia?”

“Yeah, she’s with me.”

Brad and Toby visibly relaxed. “Good,” said Toby. “I was worried about her. And Dad?”

“He’s with me, too.”

“What are they doing here?” Brad asked.

“Long story. Maybe I’ll fill you in later. On the other hand,” she said looking up at the ship, “the Esiri might have other plans.”

“Who?”

“Uh...damn. Look, boys, I know some things I shouldn’t.”

“I know the feeling,” said Brad. Something in his tone and in his eyes told her he was understating things.

“Yeah,” said Toby, “things have been a little...weird, I guess.”

Ronnie laughed. “Oh, you have no idea.”

“Well,” said Toby pensively, “at least we have shade for a while. That thing’s gotta be, what, two miles across?”

Brad looked toward the mountain. “Not a lot of clearance, either. How the hell do they steer that thing?” He shook his head. “Hey, I’ll catch up with you all later. The President is expecting me. Drive on, Corporal!”

“I’m not a Corporal,” Toby growled. He put the Jeep into gear anyway, and rolled it off toward the Visitor Center’s main building.

She kept watching as people moved equipment out onto the asphalt. Then she looked back at the ship and the little fighters flitting about, obviously creating a perimeter of sorts. Every so often, an American fighter or helicopter made a fly-by. Just what they hoped to accomplish, Ronnie had no idea. Maybe it was for show. Yeah, that was it.

“Mom?”

Ronnie turned and grinned at Silvia. “You just missed it,” she said.

“Missed what?”

“Your brothers are here.”

“Really?”

Ronnie filled her in.

A few minutes later, a knot of people filed out of the Visitor Center and came to a halt beside Ronnie. She recognized most of them from her earlier meeting.

President Whitmore, of course. Brad, also of course, who'd been invited to brief the President on what she'd been told had been an air battle against the Virini near Boise. A Cpt. Steven Hiller, who'd been one of the first to force a Virinin craft to crash, hauled the unconscious carcass of its pilot to Area-51, and piloted a salvaged Virinin fighter up to the Naglfar-class mothership and back. David Levinson, who'd written a computer virus that had forced the collapse of the Virinin inter-vessel communication system, and had since been appointed to a top aide position, and his wife Constance, the President's Chief-of-Staff. General Grey, who'd been appointed Secretary of Defense. Dr. Lacombe, who'd been involved with the previous contact with the Esiri back in 1977. And a few others who hadn't been introduced.

“Missus Johnson,” said the President, “are you sure about all that?”

“Absolutely, Mister President,” she said.

The President shook his head slowly. “I thought I told you to call me Tom.”

Ronnie smiled. “Whatever you say, Mister President.”

He exhaled heavily and turned his gaze upward. “You know, the last time these guys were here, it was night.”

“May as well be,” said David, “for all the shade it casts.”

He had a point. With the ship so wide, and so close to the ground, it blotted out the sun, as well as a lot of the ambient light. But the inverted dome hanging over them made up for it somewhat with the collection of lights peppering its surface.

Some of those lights began to flare up intermittently, accompanied by a musical note. Someone Ronnie didn't recognize said something about a tonal vocabulary and where the hell are my notes.

“Is it my imagination,” said David, “or does that sound suspiciously like the Imperial March?”

“Missus Johnson,” said Steven, “are you sure they're not as ugly as the...what did you call them...Virini?”

She shook her head. “Actually, they're kind of...cute. At least, the two I met were cute.”

“You know,” said Grey, “this _is_ supposed to be classified. Strictly speaking.”

“I'm pretty sure they have radically different ideas about that, General.”

A box-like structure descended from the dome, stopping within a yard of the ground. Its bottom edge detached, half the floor hinging downward to form a ramp. Light poured out.

Ronnie heard the distinctive clatter of dozens of military rifles being readied for use. She rolled her eyes. She supposed that the wielders were taking their jobs seriously, their jobs to guard the President.

“Have I missed anything yet?” Dwayne asked from behind her.

“Not yet, no.”

Shadows moved inside the ship, and figures began to emerge. They marched down the ramp in pairs. From head to toe, each one wore brown leather and shining metal armor. They held staffs in their gauntleted right hands, and large round shields in their left. They peeled off to the left and right at the bottom of the ramp to take up what Ronnie could only call an honor guard position.

A trio of figures emerged from the ship, the tallest one on the right, the shortest on the left. The honor guard saluted with fists to chests as they strode purposefully down the ramp, stopping a dozen paces from the knot of humans. All three wore what Ronnie swore were Viking helmets, but without the horns, and almost as much leather as a trio of bikers. And there was something vaguely familiar about them that she just couldn't quite put her finger on.

“So,” said Silvia from over Ronnie's other shoulder, “what was that about space Vikings?”

Ronnie glanced back. “Silvia, honey, I really got nothin'.”

The lights on the ship played that five-note tune she’d been hearing people humming ever since she’d arrived. Two of the figures repeated it with an “Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah.” Together at first, then in a mixed harmony.

Doctor Lacombe stepped forward and made those hand gestures Ronnie still thought were ridiculous.

The figure in the center raised its right hand in the unmistakable Vulcan sign for “Live long and prosper.”

“Nanu-nanu!” he said. “We come in peace. Take us to your leader.”

The alien to his right collapsed in a fit of laughter.

Ronnie pressed to fingers to her forehead. “Oh, good Lord,” she said, making no effort to hide her reaction.

“You know these...people?” said Whitman.

Ronnie nodded. “Yes, sir,” she said resignedly. “Really, Roy?”

The figure in the center pulled of his helmet. “Sorry,” he said. “Okay, no I’m not, but I just couldn’t resist.”

The alien to the left exhaled heavily, then pulled off her own helmet. “So much for our dignified grand entrance,” she said. Then, “Oh, good afternoon, Ronda!”

“They...speak English?” said Lacombe in his thick French accent.

Ronnie sighed. “Some of them.” Then, “Hi, Elsha. Guthni.”

Guthni pulled off her helmet and waved.

“What's with the helmets?” Dwayne asked.

“These are ceremonial,” said Elsha. “How is Kim doing?”

“About as well as can be expected. Took us all evening to get the, uh, gunk off her. Todd went through a whole bottle of shampoo the next day and her hair _still_ smells. We might have to shave it.”

Guthni winced. “I brought some extract that might help.”

Ronnie turned to Whitman. “Mister President, may I introduce Roy...uh...are you still going by Neary, or what?”

Roy shrugged. “I've grown used to Marthason. Esirin convention.”

“The ex-late husband, I take it?” said Tom.

Roy nodded. “I see she's filled you in.”

Ronnie continued. “His wife Elsha Ithunasdottir, granddaughter to the Emperor and heir to the Empire, and their daughter Guthni.”

Brad let out a low whistle. “You've got to be kidding me. My father turned into Captain Kirk?”

“What?” said Roy.

“You went into space, slept with the green-skinned girl, and had a kid. If that’s not Captain Kirk, I don’t know what is.”

“My skin is not green,” Elsha retorted.

“Wait,” said David, “you mean you...and you...and you…?”

Hiller chuckled. “Now, _that’s_ what I call a close encounter.”

“You are Brad,” said Guthni, “out of Ronda, by Roi?”

“Uh...yeah,” said Brad uncertainly.

“Brother!” she squealed. She took a few steps and gave Brad a big hug.

Rifles came up.

“Guys,” said Roy, “stand down.”

The American soldiers looked toward the President. “Relax, gentlemen,” he said, “She's harmless.” The rifles lowered.

Guthni looked at Whitmore. “I am not harmless,” she protested, stepping back from a wide-eyed Brad.

“She's right,” said Dwayne. Then, “I got a question, Mister President. Why's Brad here?”

“He led the Oregon Guard squadron in the Battle of Boise,” said Whitmore. “He had some interesting intelligence on the...Esiri...fighters.”

“One of them pulled up beside me as the battle began,” said Brad, “and gave me a thumbs-up.”

Ronnie laughed. “Really?”

“And then flipped off the Saucer we were about to attack.”

“Were you in an F-4 Phantom?” Roy asked.

“Yeah. Wait, that was _you_?”

Roy tipped his head back and laughed.

“Man,” said Brad, “you guys...and gals...kicked _ass_!”

Whitmore cleared his throat. “I hate to interrupt the family reunion, but some of us would like to get the business out of the way.”

“Oh!” said Guthni. “And then later we can...what is the word...party!”

“That is a wonderful idea!” Elsha gushed.

“Party?” said David. “In a war zone?”

“Time out!” said Roy.

“You do not say ‘time out’ to the President,” said Grey.

“That makes no sense,” said Elsha. “Time cannot be in or out. The Time Axis is linear.”

“Elsha,” said Silvia, “it’s a sports metaphor.”

Elsha grunted. “You have strange metaphors.” She looked over at a picnic table. “How about there?”

Without waiting for a reply, she walked over, turned around with her back to the table part and sat down. She pulled one of those slate things out of her satchel. “Well?” she said. “Shall we begin?”

* * *

Ronnie leaned against a large bolder that marked the boundary between the KOA and the make-shift military base. Or, rather, what had once been the base. It seemed the Esiri had other ideas about that.

She watched as clumps of Esiri, probably familial units of some sort, approached humans and attempted to strike up conversations. At first, she'd just watched it happen. But after the first five minutes, she'd seen a disaster waiting to happen and had attempted to help.

Which, of course, wasn't any help at all since she didn't speak Esirin. The best she could do was to repeatedly reassure people that the Esiri came in peace, that they had good intentions, and that no one was to shoot them under and circumstances.

“It's a good thing they're so damn cute,” Cpt. Hiller had said twenty minutes later when Ronnie had retreated to find something to drink.

She'd just nodded. She wholeheartedly agreed, especially when it came to the way they rolled their 'R's.

So she stood there, watching Roy, Elsha, Guthni, Ithuna, Bragi, and several others who spoke English work the crowds.

She glanced over at Dr. Lacombe. “It is hard to believe, oui?” he said in his heavy French accent.

“Which part?” she asked.

“This looks like First Contact. But, non. They...” He paused to gesture at the ship. “...tres interessant, oui?”

She nodded. “That's putting it mildly.”

“We knew...know...so little about them. Et what we thought we knew? All wrong!”

She chuckled. “I'm given to understand that it depends on who you ask. Seems the Scandinavians knew about them a long time ago. We just forgot.”

A dozen or so yards away, a small knot of Esiri started setting up small three-legged stools and pulling what looked like violins out of small contoured cases.

“Violins?” she said. “Seriously?”

“Why is that so hard to believe?”

Ronnie turned to see Elsha standing there smiling. She couldn't help but smile in return. “I still expect you people to be, I don't know, alien.”

Elsha frowned. “But Ronda, we _are_

_alien.” She paused. “But I think I know what you mean.”_

“The violins surprised me.”

“Those have a second set of strings that vibrate in resonance with the ones being played,” Elsha explained.

“Oh? That sounds interesting.”

Several moments later, the musicians began to warm up, tuning their instruments exactly like she'd have expected of any orchestra.

Ronnie giggled. “Elsha, I officially like your people.”

Elsha smiled. “Thank you. We are fond of you as well.”

“For all that we can't stop fighting with each other?”

“Mm, well, one can only hope, ya?”

The music began, slowly at first, then gradually increased in tempo.

“Wait,” said Ronnie, “I know that tune! It's 'Korobushka!' How the hell do you guys know 'Korobushka?'”

“You learned it from us. It is a very old tune.”

“If you say so.”

Roy walked up. “I see you ladies are getting along.”

“You know,” said Ronnie, “I never thought I'd say it, but I'm glad you went off to live with aliens. This is incredible!”

Roy grinned. He held out a hand to Elsha. She took it, and together, they began a dance that started with the two of them back-to-front and stomping their feet in unison. The dance progressed to some spins and twirls, returning them again to the back-to-front position. Then the tempo sped up. Bragi and Ithuna joined them, and soon the space was filled with Esiri doing that dance in a wide circle.

“Mom?”

“Oh, hi, Silvia.”

“Is Father dancing?”

“Yup. He's not bad, either. Quite a change from those times he took me out to the disco back in the day.”

The dancers came full circle. “Ronnie?” said Roy, extending a hand.

“Wh...no, no.”

“Oh, go on,” said Silvia and Elsha together.

Elsha switched places with Ronnie. “Roy,” said Ronnie, trying desperately to remember the steps she'd seen, “I don't think this is such a good idea.”

“Do what I told Elsha on our wedding day.”

“Which was what?”

“Follow my lead, and move your feet to the beat of your heart.”

“That's easy for you to _saayy_!” she cut off a shriek as he spun her out.

A few rounds later, she felt like she was getting it.

“Now, if you'll excuse me,” he said, spinning her out of the circle and grabbing Silvia, who likewise shrieked.

Ronnie and Elsha stood there laughing as Roy and Silvia danced around the circle. By then, a score of human couples had joined in, as well as a dozen or so others dancing with Esirin partners.

“My turn,” said Guthni, easily switching with a breathless Silvia and entering the dance, now having accelerated to dizzying speed.

“That was so much fun!” Silvia gushed.

“I know, right?” said Elsha.

A few minutes later, the song came to a resolution. Ronnie saw Roy bow over Guthni's hand in a way that reminded her of some of the old-fashioned manners she'd seen in movies like “Pride and Prejudice.”

The two trotted back over. “Well?” asked Roy.

“I love you guys,” said Silvia. She exchanged a hug with Guthni, then another with Elsha.

The party continued well past sunset. After many more rounds of dancing, interspersed with more crowd control, and more mingling, Ronnie again found herself sitting at a picnic bench with Silvia, Roy, Elsha, Guthni, Toby, Brad, and Dwayne.

In the glow of the ship, she twined her fingers through Dwayne’s. Beside her, she saw Roy put an arm around Elsha. On her other side, Guthni sat shoulder to shoulder between Silvia and Brad as though they'd grow up together.

She looked from one face to the next, feeling that certain warm familial connection and she knew her heart and soul had come home. Nothing would ever be the same, but she found she didn't want it to be. The past had irrevocably changed her and her family for the better and the future looked brighter to her than the light pouring out of the ship. “You know,” she said, “all things considered, it's been a very good day.”

Roy smiled at her, looked up at the ship, then toward Devil's Tower, and back at the family. “It has indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Korobushka" is the tune associated with the game Tetris. You know it. We all do. The tune was written in Russia in the early twentieth century, the accompanying dance not long thereafter.


End file.
